The Precious Time Affair
by Lihau
Summary: Mr. Solo steals Mexican clocks. Dr. Egret steals Russian brains. Fourth in my modern AU. Slash.
1. Act I: Zero percent of chinchillas

**A/N:** Hello. It's me. I have three out of four chapters done, and a pretty decent outline of the fourth, so posting weekly should allow enough time for me to wrap it up.

This chapter is kinda mushy and rambling, but that's apparently what I do sometimes. Enjoy? :)

* * *

Act I: Zero percent of chinchillas

_Sixteen years ago_

'_To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand. Therefore, if though art moved, thou runn'st away_._'_

"What are you reading, Nappy?"

Napoleon didn't need to look up to know this was Aunt Amy. He really couldn't afford to, anyway, since he needed all the seconds he could scrounge together to decipher what it was that he was reading.

"Ah," Aunt Amy said as he held up the thing so she could read the title. "That's one of Lota's, isn't it?"

"Was," he corrected, a bit more sharply than he'd intended. After all, Aunt Amy was one of his favorite relatives and she was here to help, providing emotional support to his parents and helping take care of him.

Napoleon didn't need to look up to hear Aunt Amy sitting down cross-legged on the front porch, a bit off to his side and back, not too close in consideration of his unfriendly demeanor.

"How do you like it so far?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I'll decide if I like it when I understand it."

She chuckled. "Yes, Shakespeare can be tough going. Let me know if you want any helpful hints."

"No," he said, this time exactly as sharply as he'd intended. Lota was supposed to do that. Lota was supposed to read with him. Lota was supposed to be here.

Lota was.

* * *

_Present day_

_April_

_Some T.H.R.U.S.H. lair_

"I told you."

Victor Marton chuckled at Dr. Egret's smirked comment. She had indeed told him, and also made the bet with him, and he had lost, and Marton prided himself on his good sportsmanship so he opened the top drawer of his desk and produced the prize he had decided on.

Dr. Egret accepted the set of keys handed to her and asked the appropriate question: "What are they to?"

"A Manhattan apartment formerly belonging to Ms. Ravel. As our wager was regarding her success on her first project as an agent of T.H.R.U.S.H.—and as she failed—it seemed appropriate that I might appropriate something of hers to provide you your reward."

Egret jangled the keys, eyed them approvingly, and pocketed them. "What next?"

Next wager. Marton stroked his chin. "I think it should be something more challenging, don't you?"

"Sure." She'd just gotten a potentially multi-million-dollar hunk of real estate for saying, _I bet you Ravel will screw it up_. She could afford to put some effort in this time.

"Do you know that idiot Zark?"

Egret hummed and echoed, "Zark?" Zark? That lunatic who fancied himself a latter-day Count Dracula and had probably been driven mad by zoonotic illness contracted from those bats among which he spent roughly ninety-eight percent of his waking hours? "I haven't thought of him in ages, but yes."

"He's still set on using bats to interfere with air traffic control, you know."

"Yes, that sounds like Zark." Zark. That ninny from Cleveland, Ohio, who put on a pathetic Eastern European accent and expected people to believe it, and called himself a count and expected people to believe it, and was quite proud of his Harvard education and was somehow insulted when people didn't believe the phony count with a phony accent had earned a genuine Harvard diploma.

"I bet that I can beat him to that, before you beat him to it."

"I accept. What counts as 'interference'?"

"At least three flights ending up somewhere they are not supposed to, with demonstrable evidence that I—or, I suppose, you—caused the error."

"By any means?"

Marton chuckled. "Would it be any fun any other way, my dear?"

Egret smirked. "Good. In that case, I already have my plan. Start thinking of what you're going to give me, _dear_."

* * *

_April_

_U.N.C.L.E.-New York_

Sometimes Illya wondered why he bothered with therapy—other than the fact that it had been mandated as a condition of his joining the U.N.C.L.E. Aside from that unfortunate detail, Friday's forty-five consecutive minutes of talking seemed an awful lot of work for very little result.

Hm. Perhaps that wasn't entirely fair. There _had_ been more than "little" in the way of results.

He'd accepted that his parents' deaths were not his fault. (For a strong three out of every four days or so, but a seventy-five percent success rate seemed tolerable.)

He'd almost decided that he had some redeemable qualities as a human being. (Qualities besides being an above-average repository of information and calculational power, since that could just as easily be a positive feature attributed to a computer rather than a person.)

He'd told Napoleon that he loved him. (Okay, so "told" was a strong word, but Napoleon had been able to fill in the blanks of his stumbling admission, so it counted. For a strong three out of four days, at any rate.)

But all that progress seemed to have stopped occurring about three weeks ago, and that meant that he'd wasted one hundred and thirty-five minutes of his life.

Well. A hundred and forty minutes, accounting for time spent travelling between his U.N.C.L.E. office and Boateng's office, plus that two minutes or so he'd had to wait when he'd arrived early for his appointment last week. Really, he had to regain a grip on his time management skills before he ended up being three or four or—he shuddered to think of it—_five_ minutes off the mark.

And there was the time currently ticking away, but the session wasn't over yet so Illya hadn't officially categorized today's forty-five minutes as being worthy of the toilet. Yet.

"And why is it that you are worried about Napoleon?"

Illya blinked at Dr. Boateng's shoes. More specifically, he blinked at Dr. Boateng's left shoe. The deep-green synthetic-material toe of Dr. Boateng's left sneaker. It was slightly darker than its right-foot-covering companion if memory served, and a quick glance to the toe of the psychiatrist's right sneaker proved that memory did indeed serve. Probably a quick damp-paper-towel cleaning job, if the muddied paper crumpled atop the things in the waste bin was any indication—oh.

He was getting distracted again. That seemed to be happening a lot lately. Maybe that was why his appointments had been subject to such a horrid decline in success of late, and maybe that meant he should try to focus more.

What was the question? Napoleon. Something about Napoleon.

Illya had walked into the office, Boateng had asked if he had anything he wanted to discuss today, Illya had given his now-customary shrug of indifference in response, Boateng had eventually commented that Illya looked worried, and Illya had muttered something along the lines of: _"With Napoleon, how can I not?"_

So that explained that. That is, it explained Boateng's question. It didn't really explain his own grumbled complaint. Was it a complaint? What had he meant by it? He hadn't thought before speaking, and that was something else that seemed to be happening a lot lately, and that lack of thought meant that he was now confronted with the tedium of deciphering his own blurted comment.

Considering that he'd been informed in no uncertain terms for the past decade or so of his life that professional assistance was required in untangling the workings of his brain, that seemed like it would be a pain. Then again, he tended not to be overly bothered by pain, regardless of whether he was on the giving or receiving end, so—there he went getting sidetracked for the umpteenth time. That wasn't a great thing for a student, as that was making studying a bit harder, but not much since he was a quick learner, so—

"Would you prefer to discuss something else?" Boateng asked, and Illya realized that this question had probably been sparked by his not having answered the man's previous question for the past three minutes or so.

Okay. Quick learner and a quick thinker too, so he mentally flipped through a few plausible justifications for his being worried about or around or regarding or in the vicinity of Napoleon. The most likely subconscious rationale that he arrived at was: "I am not good for him."

"Why not?"

Illya raised an eyebrow. That was the most obvious possible statement he could have made, even if he had been forced to scrabble for it as an explanation. "It is as if you have not been privilege to my deepest issues for the past few months, Doctor."

"I see. So, in your opinion, the things we discuss make you not good for Napoleon. Do you think Napoleon is good for you?"

As "good" was such a subjective statement, Illya found the question bordering on inane, but that wouldn't be a nice thing to blurt out and he'd been the first one to use the adjective anyway and he was trying to focus on the conversation now, and staying focused would mean he wouldn't run his mouth off. Probably. Well, he did tend to say things that weren't considered strictly polite from time to—

Focus.

Question.

Was Napoleon good for him? "Being with him takes away from time I could spend working."

"Yes," Boateng agreed, with a nod that added, _So what?_

"Attempting to be considerate of him can be stressful."

"Yes." _So what?_

Illya folded his arms and slouched down in his chair. Mature? No. The best he could come up with at the moment? Yes.

"You seem to be looking for reasons not to like him. Can you think of any reason you do like him?"

"Far too many." He crossed one knee over the other and glared at the toe of his own shoe, saw a scuff on it that he hadn't noticed before, and glared a little harder since Napoleon would probably notice it sometime and come up with some miraculous way of restoring the thing to its former unscuffed glory. "Yes, he is good for me." That kind, patient, handsome, wonderful son of a bitch. Damn him.

"And that is your judgement to make." Boateng smiled. "You know what I am implying."

"That it is his judgement whether I am good for him."

"That is right."

"But people can be wrong." Before the psychiatrist could speak again, he added, "And that would be Napoleon's mistake to make. Yes, I know. But if I do care for him, should I not want to… look after his interests?" Oh. That—did he just ask something purposeful? He supposed that was what he was supposed to do on the proverbial psychiatrist's couch (armchair, non-proverbially), but now he was going to have to actually talk. Damn himself.

"And what would that entail?"

"Terminating the relationship."

"And who would that benefit?"

"Him."

"You think he would be happy?"

Illya thought a moment. "Not at first but, after an initial period of unhappiness, I imagine he would be relieved."

"Relieved to lose someone he cares for deeply?"

Illya cocked his head and frowned at his kneecap. "You are… mixing the connotations."

"What do you mean?"

"Relief is good. Losing is not. You are emphasizing the less relevant issue."

"Sometimes good things come with difficulties. Reward comes from challenge. But if the good thing is something or someone you care about, it can be worth it."

Illya glanced to his watch and barely managed not to crack a smile at this sudden, fleeting bit of good luck. "It seems to be time up."

The Ghanaian looked at the time on his computer screen. "So it is." He smiled. "I'm proud of you, Illya."

"What a relief to know I regularly spend time with a man of such low standards." After a second of consideration, Illya tacked on a dutiful but not entirely heartfelt apology.

"You raised a concern of yours. You brought up Napoleon. Both of those are things you find hard to introduce as topics of discussion. I do not think that reflects a low standard."

"And that is your judgement to make." He stood. "Good day, Doctor."

* * *

Napoleon looked up as a folder was abruptly slapped shut, raising his brows as April tucked the paperwork under her arm and Mark started for the door.

"And where are you two off to all of a sudden?" Solo wondered.

Mark stopped just in front of the door, which slid open and (with some impatience, Napoleon imagined) remained open as Slate stood there solemnly and Dancer intoned, "A blond ice-storm is forecasted to arrive within the next three minutes."

"That was one time," Napoleon retorted.

"Two," Mark corrected.

"Two times."

"And they were both not fun."

Napoleon pursed his lips.

"Don't look at us in that tone. You know we like the little shit and want to be supportive, but being psychically impaled by an icy glare two weeks in a row sort of gave us the notion he'd prefer if we supported him in absentia."

"It'll be less crushingly awkward if we just leave for a little while instead of definitively not looking at him while he definitively doesn't look at us," April put in.

Napoleon sighed. They weren't wrong. But that didn't mean he had to let them off easy, so he adopted a wounded expression and huffed, "Fine then. Abandon me to the blizzard."

They promptly departed and Solo chuckled. It seemed his puppy-dog eyes had gotten a little rusty. Or perhaps they simply paled in comparison to Illya's puppy-dog eyes. The Russian didn't even seem to realize the effect they had, which probably made them all the more effective.

Before Napoleon had a chance to decide whether to be offended over having been usurped in the puppy-dog-eye department, the office door slid open again and he was confronted not with puppy-dog eyes but with the piercing blue Mark and April had just fled. Not with the not-infrequently-used look that said _I prefer things to be done my way as opposed to your way_, but with a somewhat-less-frequently-used look that clearly warned against anyone saying a _single goddamn word if they knew what was good for them and the currently-internal location of their internal organs_.

Napoleon smiled a closed-mouth smile to avoid giving any impression whatsoever that he had any intention of saying a single goddamn word, and the younger man's severe look unexpectedly wavered at the American's sympathetic expression. It was almost enough to encourage the brunet to venture forth with a greeting, but even Solo's optimism had its bounds and he determined that it would be safer to let Kuryakin utter the first syllables, even though those would probably take a while to emerge…

"Why are you nice?"

…or about twenty milliseconds. Napoleon almost laughed at the unexpectedness of the speech (both at the mere act of verbalization and the words themselves), but stopped himself since Illya's most incongruous utterances were oftentimes his most revealing. A brief reflection was enough to suggest to him that the unspoken addendum was: _to someone like me who doesn't deserve that niceness_.

As soon as Illya had stepped far enough into the room that the door slid shut, Napoleon stated, "Because you're my beautiful darling and I love you."

A bit of pink rose high on the blonde's cheeks.

"But I know we're supposed to be professional at the office, so we can discuss the matter further at home, m'kay?"

Illya nodded curtly and briskly took his position behind his desk, diving so quickly into the work to be done there that the interruption to meet with Dr. Boateng seemed never to have cut in at all.

After a few moments, Napoleon resumed his own work and, when he glanced up again a bit later, smiled as he met blue eyes. He suppressed a laugh as the pink returned and Illya almost stabbed himself in those blue eyes in his haste to put his glasses back on. He didn't quite manage to contain a chuckle when Kuryakin perceived his mirth and muttered a preemptive, "Shut up," before going back to business.

* * *

_The next morning_

Napoleon jerked a bit at a popping sound, reaching between the headboard and the mattress for his handgun on the floor. Before his fingertips brushed the metal, his eyes fell on Illya, standing at the foot of the bed with the remnants of a party cracker in either hand.

Illya glanced at the paperboard and foil in his grasp. "I shall inform Mark that this constituted the last time I shall ever take his advice."

Solo glanced down to the tray settled on the bottom of the mattress before Kuryakin. It looked suspiciously like he was about to be served breakfast in bed, so Napoleon withdrew his hand from its gun-grabbing position, lay back down, and grinned, "Is this for my birthday?"

"It is not because I like you." Illya tossed the party cracker remnants into the waste bin by Napoleon's home desk, picked up the tray, and moved up the bedside, nudging at the older man's shoulder with the edge of the tray. "Sit up properly. You cannot eat like this."

Napoleon chuckled and sat up, smiling wider when Illya deposited the tray as soon as he'd created enough of a lap upon which it could be deposited. "Now all I need is my favorite way to start the morning."

Illya frowned down at the tray. "The coffee is there."

"I meant a kiss."

A mild glare. "In that case, why do you insist on spending unnecessary amounts of money on your second-favorite way to start the morning?"

Napoleon laughed, grabbed some material at the collar of Illya's pajama shirt, and pulled him in. "Because I get the first one for free."

Illya obligingly leaned down with the tug but, as Napoleon moved in closer, tilted his chin away. "Why should I kiss you when you call me cheap?"

"I called you priceless, not cheap. And you should kiss me because it's my birthday."

"Then I should only kiss you on your birthd-umf!"

After a few moments, Napoleon eased the pressure on Illya's lips and loosed his grip on his shirt, smiling at the Russian as he pulled himself upright again. "Have you eaten yet?" The pleasantly flushed blonde shook his head, so the brunet glanced to the tray of food, noted it was a definitively non-gluten-free selection that had likely been delivered from a café down the street, and said, "Then go get yourself something and bring it in here so we can eat together."

Illya frowned. "But your birthday is not an occasion that earns me the right to this luxury."

"True, but it's my birthday so you should make me happy by joining me in bed." As Illya continued to look doubtful, Napoleon said, "How about some oatmeal? Half a cup of oats, about twice as much water, and microwave for a couple minutes. Cinnamon and loads of raisins." He lightly swatted at Illya's stomach. "We still have to fatten you up."

Illya not-so-lightly swatted at Napoleon's stomach in return. "Do not do that again or this will be your penultimate birthday."

"Only the penultimate?"

"Vengeance cannot be rushed, Napoleon. It must be adequately contemplated to be worth its execution."

"Could you look a little less sincere when you say that?"

"Of course I could. But that would be less entertaining."

"Less terrifying," Napoleon corrected.

"For you." The Russian finally cracked a smile almost matching the American's in its brightness, but it quickly dropped into an expression of consternation. "It—it is… _nice_. This, I mean." At Solo's questioning head-tilt, he went on. "This… that you—you understand my sense of humor. It's… nice."

Napoleon beamed, tamped down the urge to say how sweet Illya was because Illya would probably rescind the year-long reprieve on vengeance if he didn't tamp it down, and settled for saying, "Kiss me, then get your breakfast and join me in bed."

Illya sniffed. "You are—" He paused as if to consider the most appropriate word and soon settled on: "—bossy."

"It's my birthday."

"Happy Birthday. You are bossy." His eyes widened as Napoleon again grasped some fabric at the front of his shirt and pulled him in for his demanded kiss. Once released again, Illya griped, "You will rip the material if you carry on doing that."

"Mm, that sounds fun."

Illya amended his earlier assessment: "Bossy and violent."

"But you love me anyway." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Kinky." When Illya blinked uncomprehendingly, he leaned up to peck him on the nose. "God, I love you but sometimes you make me feel like a dirty old man."

"You are. You've not yet showered."

"That's the dirty. But old?"

"Yes, chronological conventions are rather strange. You are officially a year older today than you were yesterday." Illya smirked. "Twenty-six… years… _old_."

Napoleon donned a wounded expression. "Just wait until you hit the big two-six."

"Then you will have hit the big three—oh."

"Three-three," Solo corrected. "I would think a chap with a degree in mathematics could add seven and twenty-six."

"Arithmetic is not the same as mathematics." Kuryakin shook his head rapidly to refocus his conversational priority. "No, I… you… speak as if we—you will still… _know_ me when I am twenty-six."

The blonde's implication clicked and Napoleon flicked him on the forehead. "My coffee's gonna get cold. Go get your breakfast, chou."

Blue eyes blinked a few times, then Illya nodded slowly and headed off. Once he had left the room, Napoleon let out a breath and slumped back against the headboard.

Seven years.

He expected Illya to be with him seven years from now.

Seven. Years.

The only people he'd known for that long were relatives, and the only ones of those he maintained steady contact with were his parents and his aunt.

_Seven years_.

He was attracted to the Russian instantly. Wanted him within minutes. Fell in love with him within weeks. What kind of a lovesick puddle of mush would he be in _seven__ fricking years_?

Or was Illya's hesitation an implication that Kuryakin didn't want to be stuck with that kind of a lovesick puddle of mush in seven fricking years?

Napoleon wiped a hand down his face. "My god, I'm a sap," he muttered, then chuckled at himself since he'd always been sort of a sap, in that he acted the part of a romantic. Still, that had always been part of the game. A means to an end. This, on the other hand… this, that he had with Illya, he didn't want to end, because it wasn't a game.

It wasn't the same game, at any rate. Illya didn't follow the same rules as Napoleon's one-night stands.

He seemed neither impressed nor convinced by most of Napoleon's flattery, although the fact that he occasionally flushed or touched his hand to whatever feature had been complimented was enough to convince Napoleon that the Russian wasn't nearly as unaffected as he let on.

The way Illya looked at him made him feel as if he were the most important person in the world but, when it came to verbalizing anything even vaguely complimentary, that expression immediately morphed into something pained and the words were stilted and forced.

For all his aloofness when it came to most situations with most people, he increasingly let his guard down around Napoleon, allowing the American to see his sensitive side—and, more recently, softly rebuffing Napoleon's more sexual advances rather than responding with a sharp threat of dismemberment.

He was attractive and knew people thought so, yet didn't seem to understand why.

He was blunt and often said hurtful things, yet didn't seem to say them maliciously.

Napoleon turned his head as Illya stepped through the doorway. A blond eyebrow arched and Illya briefly lifted a steaming bowl of oatmeal cradled in a potholder: _Are you happy now that I've done what you wanted?_

Napoleon flipped down the blanket at his side and cheerily patted the mattress.

Illya rolled his eyes and climbed in, and Napoleon flipped the blanket back up over Illya's lap before he set down his bowl. The other blond eyebrow arched: _So NOW are you happy, now that I've done BOTH of the things you wanted?_

Napoleon brushed some of the hair away from the pale forehead and kissed the cleared patch of skin. He cupped Illya's cheek and rubbed the cheekbone gently with his thumb. "Ya tebe lyublyu." _I love you._

At the whispered words, Illya frowned, swallowed hard, and furrowed his brow. He replied tartly, "Your pronunciation has improved, at least."

"Thank you." He kissed the other cheek.

"I did not say it was good. Merely improved."

"That's good." A kiss to the chin.

"Y-your coffee will get cold."

Napoleon smiled at the stutter. "That's okay. I like you warm, too."

The previously-faded flush returned and his pupils dilated noticeably as Napoleon leaned in closer. "But… I paid for you to have a hot coffee."

"And I shall cherish that thought, horobchyk, as we…." Napoleon let the sentiment drift away as he closed the rest of the distance for a gentle kiss on the soft lips. "I consider it a privilege that you let me do this," the brunet murmured before briefly connecting their mouths again to illustrate the "this" to which he was referring.

"As well you should," Illya agreed quietly. At Napoleon's chuckle, he rejoined matter-of-factly, "It is not as if I let anybody else kiss me."

"That's good—" Napoleon slid a bit closer, slipping his hand from Illya's cheek to encircle his waist. "—because you're mine, and it would make me very sad if you let some other schmuck kiss you."

"I am only 'yours' because I allow it," Illya reminded him, "but yes, you are the only schmuck permitted this honor."

"Walked right into that one, didn't I?"

"Yes and, to your detriment, I have learnt what fun it is to say 'schmuck'." Illya nodded solemnly. "You are my one and only schmuck."

"Hey, it's still this schmuck's birthday. Be nice."

"I am being nice. You shall be fully aware of it when I stop being nice." He picked up the coffee cup from Napoleon's tray. "Perhaps my pouring your second-favorite way to start the day over your head might be a hint."

The American laughed. "Yes, it might, mightn't it?" He took the cup from Illya's grasp and took a long sip. "Perfect," he declared.

"It is lukewarm now," Illya countered, "and it is your own fault." He dug into his oatmeal and, around a mouthful of the cereal, grumbled, "Next year I shall transport your birthday coffee in a thermos."

Napoleon took another sip. "And the year after that?" Solo thought he did a fair job of disguising his nerves under a smooth tone as he prompted, "Or don't you expect me to know you that long?"

"I did not expect you to know me this long," Illya shrugged, and Solo thought Kuryakin did a lousy job of disguising his nerves with a bland delivery.

"Neither did I, but here we are."

"With such predictive incompetence, clearly we are meant for each other."

"I think you're right."

"I was being sarcastic."

"I wasn't."

Illya cast his eyes downward as Napoleon lightly stroked his fingers along his waist. He could feel the soft brown gaze on him even without glancing over to confirm it.

"Talk to me." After a few moments of no response, he prompted, "Well?"

Illya blinked at his lap rapidly. "Sorry?"

"Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything. Everything. Nothing."

Illya snorted. "I will not whisper sweet nothings in your ear, Napoleon—birthday or no."

"Then anything or everything."

"Everything is a lot of pressure."

"Then anything."

Illya managed briefly to meet the darker eyes before looking down again. "It is your birthday. You pick the topic."

"Okay. Can I whisper sweet nothings in _your_ ear, then?"

"I thought _I_ was supposed to be talking."

"That's what I asked you to do, but you don't seem like you want to talk."

"Oh?"

"You won't look at me."

Illya glanced up again. Briefly, again. "There."

"Are you angry because I was assuming that I'll know you for a long time?"

"No. I am confused because you assume you will know me for a long time, which seems to imply that you want to know me for a long time."

"I do. I want to know you for as long as you'll let me know you."

"What if that is a very long time?"

"That's good."

"What if I say tomorrow that I no longer… like you?"

Napoleon's hand drifted up from his waist, tracing along his spine and neck and jaw until a couple of fingers urged Illya's chin up, so he would face his partner. "What if you _say_ it…" the American asked slowly, "…or what if you _mean_ it?"

Illya's breath caught in his throat as their eyes met. He couldn't have felt sicker to his stomach if he'd been belted in the gut by a sledgehammer. The thought of either eventuality wasn't a good one, although he imagined the latter was essentially impossible and the former would likely be a lie meant to drive them apart. And if the lie succeeded—

Oh, he didn't like that.

He didn't like that thought at all.

He couldn't let it happen, and he was fairly certain Napoleon wouldn't believe him if he said one day—out of the blue—that he no longer cared for him…

Fairly certain?

_Fairly certain_ wasn't good enough. He needed more than _fair_.

Illya moved his mouth wordlessly for several moments before managing a snappish: "Napoleon."

"Yes?"

"I _luh_—I-I… I can't say it when you look at me!"

Napoleon's eyes crinkled at the corners—that probably meant he was smiling, but somehow Illya couldn't withdraw his gaze to check the status of his mouth—and the brunet's eyelids descended in a silent invitation to say whatever-it-was that couldn't be said under watch.

Then again, Illya wasn't entirely confident that he could say it even without Napoleon looking at him, but there were really only two options for this:

One, say it with Napoleon looking at him.

Two, say it without Napoleon looking at him.

The second option seemed slightly less mortifying, so he shut his own eyes, took a shaky breath, realized that the words didn't seem forthcoming in English, and resorted to a very quiet: "Ya tebe lyublyu."

The silence following that declaration dragged on until Illya was about to open his eyes and see why the earth hadn't shattered and fallen away from the shock of his admission. Before he could do so, he was suddenly pressed back against the headboard, lips firmly upon his own, and he vaguely registered the bowl in his lap being removed and placed with a slight rattle on a bedside table.

"You said it."

Illya's eyelids fluttered open dazedly as the words were breathed almost into his mouth.

"Did you mean it? Do you mean you're… _in_ love?"

He nodded—just the smallest of motions since Napoleon's head was very close to his own and it seemed that anything more enthusiastic might ruin the moment by cracking their skulls together—then gasped as Napoleon proceeded to ruin the moment by audibly cracking Illya's skull against the headboard in his enthusiasm to resume their lip-lock.

"Christ, I'm sorry!" Napoleon withdrew his face and cradled the back of the blond head in both hands. "Are you okay?"

Illya reached up to feel for the bump that was unlikely to have formed yet, encountered Napoleon's knuckles instead, and let his own hand fall forward to rest on the other man's forearm. "It is a saying, yes?"

"Huh?"

Illya almost laughed, since Napoleon looked for all the world as if he thought the Russian had suffered a concussion and was talking nonsense. "'Love hurts'," he clarified.

"Oh." Napoleon did laugh. "Oh, Illya. My beautiful, beautiful Illya…." He trailed off as he moved in for a series of kisses, making sure this time to move very deliberately. Slowly. Gently, with one hand at the nape of Illya's neck and the other at his cheek. "Ya tebe lyublyu, horobchyk."

Illya tried to speak a few times but Napoleon's lips kept interfering with the process, so he eventually grabbed Napoleon's shoulders with both hands and firmly pushed him away. "Breakfast."

Napoleon grinned. "How's that?"

"Breakfast. In bed. Which I so thoughtfully planned for your birthday."

"Thoughtfully planned, indeed, but your kisses are so much tastier." He pressed back on Illya's hands to steal another kiss. "And it's my birthday." Another kiss. "So can I get to choose what I want for breakfast?"

Illya glanced at Napoleon's breakfast tray, set on the other bedside table, before pointing out, "Breakfast entails consumption. You cannot consume a kiss."

"But I'm not hungry for breakfast." Kiss. "Ya tebe lyublyu." Kiss. "I love you." Kiss. "I want you."

"You want me… to do what?"

Napoleon halted the barrage of kisses and exhaled a chuckle. He rested his forehead against Illya's. "Ah, my innocent horobchyk."

"What? What do you want me to do? As you said, it is your birthday. I will do what you want, if it is within reason." Napoleon just sighed and laughed lightly again, so Illya said, "What—oh. Does… it have something to do with sss_intimate_ relations?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Illya swallowed hard. "Oh. I." He dropped his gaze. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Illya shrugged and didn't reply, so Napoleon filled the silence by quietly explaining, "In this context, 'I want you' means that I want to make love to you."

"Oh. Is that another name for one of the things you told me about when we had our The Talk?"

"'Make love' is a euphemism for having sex, so yes."

"Oh."

Napoleon frowned as Illya lowered his chin. "I didn't mean that we had to do anything now. I—you know that I've wanted you for a while. You also know that I'd never push you into anything you aren't comfortable with."

"Yes. I know."

"Then why—" Napoleon arched his brows as Illya shoved him just hard enough to clear a path for himself to get out of bed. "Illya—"

"I say that I love you, and you say you want me."

"What—"

"And 'make love' is a euphemism for s-s—_chert_, I cannot even say the word anymore!" Illya growled softly, then took a deep breath and continued in a low voice, "I say 'love', and one of your first responses is that you… want me."

Napoleon shifted closer to the edge of the bed and extended his hand. Once Illya took it, albeit with some hesitation, the American spoke in a measured tone. "Before I said that, though, I said that I love you. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"Yes, but."

"But…?"

"Clearly the two are so closely entangled that—one must affect the other. One could improve the other." He finished with a barely audible: "One could damage the other."

Napoleon kissed the hand he was holding. "They can be related, yes, but you can have love without sex, and sex without love. Yes, I want us to have both, but love is the priority. _You_ are my priority. You are your personality, your mind—and yes, you come in a pretty package, but that's not the most important part." He took the other hand and kissed it, too. "Let's not talk about it anymore for now, hm? You need your lukewarm oatmeal and I need my lukewarm coffee."

"Yes. I… it was inconsiderate of me to throw a tantrum on your birthday."

Napoleon grinned and pulled lightly until Illya moved to get back into bed. "Chou, if that was a tantrum, I can live with that."

"You already live with that—with me."

"Well, Happy Birthday to me."

"Indeed. You'll be old before your time."

"I thought you said I was already old."

"I did, but I did not want to rub it in, in case your memory was failing and you had forgotten."

"Brat."

"Old man."

"Impertinent."

"Egoist."

"Beautiful."

"Drink your damn coffee before I pour it in your lap."

"I thought you said you'd pour it over my head."

"I am leaving my options open."

Napoleon took a sip of his drink to open the alternative option of Illya not pouring anything anywhere, then commented, "Saying you're beautiful isn't an insult."

"It is."

"I don't mean it to be. Why do you think it is?"

Illya slowly ate a mouthful of oatmeal before responding. "I am not a girl."

"Duly noted."

Illya shot him a dark look. "You cannot flatter me the same way you did the girls you… _dated_."

"I don't."

"You never called them beautiful?"

Napoleon thought for a moment. "Actually, no." At the skeptical expression this earned him, Solo went on: "Not often, at any rate. Somehow I've always thought other words seemed less multidimensional than 'beautiful', and I didn't want to lead anybody on."

"But you want to… 'lead me on'?" Illya frowned and pondered this over another bite. "Define, please."

"If you're leading someone on, that means you're making them think that you want more of a relationship with them than you actually do want. I want a serious relationship with you, so I'm not leading you on."

"Oh."

"I love you."

"Yes. I—I might not be able to say… _that_ very often."

Napoleon pecked him on the cheek. "As long as you meant it the first time, that can tide me over until the next."

Illya mumbled something back.

"All I caught was 'prynts charivnyy'."

Illya quirked a brow. "Congratulations."

"That means I'd like to know what the rest means. Hint, hint."

"I will tell you on your next birthday."

"I'll hold you to that."

Illya grunted and returned through a mouthful of oatmeal, "Surely I can come up with something adequately insulting by then."

"Until then, I'll just glory in the knowledge that you consider me your Prince Charming."

A snort. "Enjoy that. Prynts ehomans'kyy."

The accompanying smirk was enough to tell Napoleon that he wouldn't be finding out what this meant until his next birthday, either.

* * *

_May_

_With Victor Marton_

"Crystalline quartz."

"Tellurium."

"Tellurium with quartz."

"Tellurium with thallium-arsenic-selenium crystals."

"And the quartz."

"No, sapphire."

"Q-quartz is easier on the b-b-budget."

"That's assuming Mr. Marton is _paying_ for it."

"Quartz is better."

"That's assuming Mr. Marton is an idiot."

"Y-you're the i-i-idiot."

"And you're the pigheaded, pigeon-toed, dog-faced saphead."

"Now, now, now, gentlemen," Marton finally interjected, not quite up to being witness to the pathetic sight of two arthritic, myopic, septuagenarian chemists poking each other's eyes out with their canes. Besides being pathetic, he needed both of them and all eight of their eyes, even if they probably had cataracts in at least four of them. "No need to get nasty."

Dr. Periwinkle (the idiot) and Dr. Meriwether (the pigheaded, etc., saphead) glared at each other through their bespectacled, be-cataract'd eyes a moment longer before looking to Marton.

"Before you delved into your invigorating tellurium-based debate, I had been trying to draw your collective attention to this memorandum I have from a friend of mine." Marton held up the aforementioned memo and placed it on the table before the chemists, atop the journal articles and printouts the men had been arguing over. "She'd been going to join us but has some business elsewhere, so I had her write up what she told me so you could advise me on it."

Meri and Peri both reached for the memo to have a read, glared at each other again, and ended up each holding one side of the paper up. Realizing they couldn't read at that distance. Finally managing to work together as they simultaneously drew the paper closer and ended up with the sides of their heads pressed together to get a better view of the document.

"Aztenite," Periwinkle mumbled.

"Didn't think there were any useful-sized samples," Meriwether grumbled.

"Does have everything that would work best," Peri muttered.

"Ye-es, b-but how could we get enough?" Meri stuttered.

Marton smiled, leaning back in his chair. So Dr. Egret hadn't been lying about her offer to give him a free tip on their new bet: aztenite would do the trick. He cleared his throat until the chemists looked up so he could ask them, "Would three grams suffice?"

"Absolutely," Meriwether nodded as Periwinkle shrugged, "Indubitably."

"Then you shall have them and you can create your—my—laser."

"But how?" Periwinkle wondered, and Meriwether asked, "Where would you find so much? The only extracted samples are measured in the milligrams, and the remaining source was long ago buried in the complete cave-in of the only mine known to produce it."

"I had my secretary do a bit of research once my friend told me about this mineral, aztenite. As it turns out, it's can be an attractive thing once it's all polished up, and a Mexican clockmaker based not far from that mine procured a few samples as ornaments for some of his pieces, before your aforementioned cave-in." Marton produced a few photos from his suit jacket pocket. "Based on the size of the samples, I imagine there should be more than enough for you to work with, is there not?"

Rather than put the scientists through another battle to hold the sheets, Marton kindly held up the photos close to their faces so they could examine the bits of mineral adorning the intricate silver clocks.

"Yes, that should do. Plenty to work with if something goes wrong the first time around," Meriwether said as Periwinkle nodded, or perhaps it was the other way around, as they did look rather similar and Marton hadn't gotten around to slapping labels on the pair. Now that they seemed ready to get to work, however, he at least had the excuse of needing them to have IDs at the ready before they were allowed into the lab he'd set up.

* * *

_May_

_With the non-evil people_

Sometimes Illya wondered why he bothered with humans—other than the fact that he had little choice in the matter short of fleeing to an uninhabited region, but that would likely entail giving up Napoleon and peer-reviewed journals and other materialistic things that he had to admit he enjoyed having access to.

Still, if he was feeling whimsical, he'd imagine what it would be like to have a day without people aside from himself: not seeing a soul, saying a word, pretending it didn't bother him when someone stared at him or stood within three feet of him or—worse still—smiled or attempted to strike up an unnecessary conversation. Or even a necessary conversation.

And really, how was he supposed to react when a perfect stranger smiled at him? They couldn't possibly be making a tacit demand for a returning smile, so why were they smiling at him?

Were they holding back a laugh?

Intending to speak to him?

Could they tell he was a foreigner?

Took medication and saw a psychiatrist?

Was gay and lived with his boyfriend?

Wasn't quite right, quite normal, quite all there?

"Where are you, Illya?"

In Dr. Boateng's office, Illya realized. Drifting off in his mind again, he realized. He looked to the man patiently watching him and slightly belatedly replied, "In a reasonably comfortable armchair. There is a small lump at the right rear, however, so you might consider turning over the cushion."

"Mentally, you were not here." Illya tried not to be insulted that his suggestion had been ignored. "Would you mind telling me where in your mind you went?"

And that question reminded Illya that neither Boateng nor any of those perfect strangers could read his entire life history based simply on looking at—smiling at—briefly talking to—him. Unless, of course, the man had asked to throw Illya off the trail, but that would be irrational conspiracy-theory level thinking, and Illya wasn't quite that far gone.

Most days.

Today he felt a little weird, but that would pass soon enough… unless this was the one time it wouldn't pass.

"Are you certain that you're still in the armchair?"

Illya blinked himself back into focus. "Yes, I… apologize."

The psychiatrist took his notebook from his desk and flipped over to a specific page as he asked, "Have you been having difficulty concentrating outside of our sessions, Illya?" At the Russian's shrug and noncommittal mutter, Boateng pressed, "For how long?"

Illya sighed mentally before admitting, "Perhaps a month."

"You have been at the lowest dose I'd prescribe on your medication since January. It is not very common to build up a tolerance, but it does happen. And I do think you could have better mood benefits from increasing your dose. Would you be open to trying that?"

Illya crossed his legs at the ankle and looked at his toes. "Can we not do talk therapy for that?"

"Of course: that is what we've been doing. But it may help if you can concentrate while we're talking."

"Touché." He re-crossed his ankles so the opposite foot was on top. "May I take a week to consider it?"

"Of course. If you could decide a couple of weeks before you leave for the training session, though, I would appreciate being able to make sure you don't have a bad reaction."

Illya nodded, glanced at his watch, noted there were still fifteen minutes left for this session, and resorted to asking, "May we wrap up early? I don't know that I'll be sufficiently present to be of use to myself, and I have final exams to review for."

"Okay. I will see you next week, then. And let me know what you decide about changing your prescription."

* * *

_That weekend_

_Napoleon and Illya's apartment_

"It is eleven at night."

"I am capable of telling time, thank you."

Illya frowned and blinked a few times at the side of Napoleon's head, still bent over his laptop and, seconds ago, the source of an uncharacteristically terse response. "I mention it because this is when you… close up the shop for the day," the Russian clarified.

"True, chou, but this paper doesn't give a damn about healthy work-sleep schedules."

"I am aware of that," Illya returned with a glance to the page of citations being edited on Napoleon's screen. "A healthy work-sleep schedule would be helpful to your paper, however."

"It's due on Monday."

"Then you have all day tomorrow."

"And that would be plenty of time if I hadn't realized five minutes ago that I used the wrong citation style for a hundred sources. I'll do this tonight, then tomorrow I'll do the conclusion and final proofread and print it, like I'd planned."

"I can proofread if you like."

"Thanks, but no."

"I can do the citation correction."

"No." Napoleon grunted a curse and stabbed the Backspace key with a finger. "Thanks."

"Still, I am sure you can do all you need tomorrow, and likely much more efficiently and accurately once you have had some sleep."

"That all sounds very reasonable, Illya, but—"

"It is what you would tell me."

"Yes, and I'm very wise that way, but this is my capstone paper for the Geography end of my studies and I would rather not have it riddled with stupid mistakes. I know it's not very impressive to you, Mr. Four Degrees with a Fifth in Progress, but graduating from college is kind of a big deal to yours truly."

"You committed to something that you no doubt found challenging at times," Illya said slowly, "and for that I am… proud of you."

Napoleon's eyebrows darted up. "You—what?"

After briefly considering a refusal to repeat himself, Illya decided instead to seize this opportunity to draw Napoleon from his stress-grouching. "I… am proud of you."

"Really?"

A small nod. "If I may ask, are you graduating with honors?"

"Yes, sir," Solo grinned. "As long as I don't completely bomb my finals, it'll be magna cum laude."

"Ah. Well, nobody is perfect." He felt his eyes go wide in dismay over having so quickly ruined his effort to make the American less cranky. "I mean—"

"I know what you mean," Napoleon interjected with a chuckle and a passing stroke of the blond hair. "You can go on to bed. I'll stay in here for a while so my screen doesn't keep you up."

Illya crossed his arms. "Define 'a while'."

"An indeterminate amount of time." Napoleon returned to his Works Cited list. "Go to bed, chou."

Illya nodded even though the brown eyes were no longer directed at him. He only had one previous experience of Solo's Exam Week habits, so perhaps that more laid-back attitude had been an outlier, and all his previous semesters had been a flurry of activity and anxiety like this current one. And if he was graduating magna cum laude, that strategy must have worked. To some degree.

"Very well." Illya shut the textbook he'd been flicking through. "Good night."

"Hey," Napoleon said as Illya rose from the couch. At the arched brow this garnered, he prompted, "Goodnight kiss. In case you're asleep before I get there."

Illya leaned down to allow the kiss, then repeated, "Good night," and went to get ready for bed. And when he got into bed, it was alone. And when he groggily awoke for about five minutes at three in the morning, he was still alone. And when he got up at a more reasonable time in the morning to get ready for his run with Mark, he was still alone and, upon going into the living room, found Napoleon right where he'd left him.

"Did you get any sleep at all?" Illya wondered as he brought an orange, a plate, and his sneakers over, shoving his feet into the shoes before sitting on an arm of the couch.

"Sometime between four and five."

He tied one shoe. "Do you mean one hour or less, or between four and five hours?"

"Hour or less."

The other shoe. "You could not have spent all this time revising your citations list."

"No. I took a break from that and figured I'd study for another final while I was up anyway."

He peeled the orange, setting the rind on the plate. "Sounds like a productive night."

"Yeah—could you not do that here? You're squirting orange juice in my face."

Illya shrugged and retreated to the kitchen. Napoleon hadn't looked at him once this morning—hadn't said the _good morning_ he usually did regardless of however Illya greeted him—hadn't moved in for a kiss to start the day—so perhaps it would be for the best to remove himself entirely until the brunet was back to himself.

The orange was finished just as the doorbell sounded off, so Illya hurried to the door before it could be rung again. He checked through the peephole before opening the door with, "Good morning, Mark. Let us go."

"Slow down, Sparky," Slate laughed. "Where's the fire?" He called past Kuryakin, "Howdy, Polo!" No reply came immediately, so he added, "I said 'hi', chum!"

_"Mm-yeah, hi, Mark."_

Mark looked to Illya, who supplied, "He slept not very much last night and is concerned about schoolwork. Let us go."

"You, er, don't wanna hang 'round for moral support?"

Illya frowned. "I do not believe Napoleon's morals are currently at risk. Let us go."

"To keep his spirits up, I mean."

He frowned harder. "I fail to see how the presence of me, the yin to Napoleon's yang, would be helpful in that regard. I believe he has a grasp on the situation. Let us go."

"Right, then. Has Polo ever commented on how you say 'sitchy-ation'? 'Cause it's the best fuckin' thing ever." Before Illya could outwardly react to this remark, but after he'd inwardly made a note to correct his pronunciation, Mark called, "Catch you later, Polo!"

_"Mm-hm, yep."_

* * *

"I thought we agreed I was doing the cooking."

"You fell asleep at noon."

Napoleon pressed his lips together. "Yes. Yes, I did. That would explain your making yourself lunch. What's with this dinner-making business?"

Illya sighed at the clipped tone. "I thought I was being nice. If I'd known you would react this way, I'd not have gone to the trouble."

"I'm sorry." He pecked the Russian on the cheek as a further token of contrition. "What are you making, chou?"

"I thought you'd astutely deduced that I was making dinner."

"Illya…"

"Sopes."

Napoleon frowned. "Soaps?"

"So-_pes_. It is a Spanish word, presumably with a meaning of some sort. The most descriptive definition would likely be 'small, fat tortillas with assorted things piled thereupon'."

"Sounds fancy."

"It is not."

"Where'd you learn how to make it?"

"Dr. Jimenez gave me the recipe." He nodded at a sheet of paper covered with the surprisingly neat handwriting of one of U.N.C.L.E.-New York's medical staff. "It remains to be seen whether I am, in fact, making 'it' as opposed to an abominable approximation thereof."

Napoleon grunted and noted the bag of corn flour, sitting by the paper and presumably the source of the thin layer of off-white powder sprinkled across the sheet. "I don't remember us having that."

Illya looked up from the ball of corn-based dough he was flattening, just long enough to follow Napoleon's gaze. "We did not, so I bought it while you napped." He held up the squooshed former sphere in his palm and tried to assess if it seemed the correct thickness. Perhaps he should bring in a ruler.

"Go on," Napoleon urged.

"Go on what?" Maybe a little flatter. He pressed on the dough, then sighed quietly as it started breaking up. Too dry.

As Illya remoistened his hands and started returning the dough to its spherical shape, Napoleon said, "You implied that you may have potentially left the building while I was down for the count. Which you are not necessarily supposed to do alone until April, Mark, and I are all college-graduated."

Illya took a second to absorb the new colloquialism for "sleeping", then nodded. "I did." A little more water and the dough felt better as he started compressing it again.

"Go on."

"I did not go alone. April happened to come by to return the DVD she had borrowed and, while she was here, I coerced her into escorting me to the nearest establishment selling Hispanic food items."

Napoleon grinned. "Coerced her, huh?"

"She had been going to meet a friend. I compelled her to not do so." It had been quite easy, actually: he'd only had to say please. Five times. And whatever expression he was making had apparently counted as something called "puppy-dog eyes" and been the clincher, so he'd have to keep that in mind for future reference.

He placed the reasonably successful sope-esque thing on the plate he'd set aside for this purpose, then looked to Napoleon again. "That was not very considerate of me, was it?"

"Not especially, but it's her job to keep tabs on you and I'm sure she understands that you'd've gone on your own if you could." Napoleon watched as the Russian pulled off another hunk of dough from the source hunk he'd made. "That looks fun. Can I help?"

Illya frowned. The idea had been for him to do something nice for his worn-out boyfriend to let him relax, but it seemed mean to deny the man something that he thought would be fun, so: "If you like."

Napoleon flashed a grin, and Illya answered with a small smile before adding tentatively, "Have you finished being… distressed?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I've done as much as is humanly possible so I'm just gonna try to chill out for the rest of the day. I'm, uh, sorry for being…"

"A cranky-pants?" Illya suggested and, at Napoleon's laugh, addended, "Mark suggested that was an appropriate descriptor."

"Well, he's not wrong. Yes, I apologize for being a cranky-pants."

"Given that my state of being is generally that of a cranky-pants, it seems only fair that you take your turn on occasion."

"You're not generally a cranky-pants."

"Then what am I generally?"

Napoleon flattened his first ball of dough and placed it on the plate, taking another hunk of dough to shape before replying. "You're serious. Introspective. Maybe a little broody." He nudged Illya's elbow with his own and grinned again. "You're the yin to my yang."

A blond eyebrow arched. Had Napoleon actually heard him when he'd been talking with Mark earlier?

"The peanut butter to my jelly."

"…pardon?"

"The smetana to my borscht."

"Is there some deeper implication to the comparisons you are suggesting, which I am not realizing?"

"No. I just thought I'd go the humorous route instead of getting sappy. The beans smell good."

"April made them," and Illya admitted to himself that that was probably the only reason they smelled good rather than toxic.

"She did?"

"Yes. It seems she does not trust me with hot oil," and that probably had something to do with that small grease fire he'd inadvertently set while Napoleon was in Brazil this past winter, but he and Dancer had managed to get it under control before any significant damage resulted, so he saw no reason to trouble Solo with the incident.

"Boy, I must've been out cold, not to have noticed any of your comings and goings and all the assorted kitchen activities."

"April is a spy and I have some aspiration toward the same. 'Quiet' is an advantageous quality to possess. She did stay significantly longer than she had intended, however." He thought a moment. "I will devise some means of compensating for that."

"Good idea. So did you accept my apology or am I on the proverbial couch?"

Illya's brow furrowed. "I am not familiar with couch-centered proverbs."

"I mean, did you accept my apology or have you not yet forgiven me for being a cranky-pants?"

"I thought I had implied that I had no reason to be… offended."

"Yes, you implied that specific thing. Au contraire, you did not state explicitly that you were, in fact, not offended or upset." Napoleon nudged the Russian's elbow again and winked. "I know how you operate, pal."

Illya finished shaping the piece of dough and started on another one before answering slowly. "I was… unsettled. But I understand and, yes, I forgive you."

"Unsettled?" Napoleon pressed.

"You normally do not… behave irritably toward me even if I give you reason to. It—I. Found it… concerning."

"Okay. Okay, I would get being upset or offended, but why unsettled and concerned? That sounds more like I—" The American took a moment to hope his impression was off. "—scared you."

"Perhaps for a moment. As a rule, my thoughts tend toward the catastrophic. I… feared—fear—your supply of patience may not be so large as I had fancied. And I fear I may be incapable of… not trying that patience, and so you might not be willing to… put up with me much longer."

"Do I try your patience?"

Illya shrugged quickly and started flattening the dough in his hands. "That is irrelevant."

Napoleon lightly grasped one of the Russian's wrists to arrest his movement. "Do I?" he pressed.

Illya stared at the hand grabbing him. "On occasion."

"Should I be afraid that you won't be willing to put up with me much longer?"

His gaze shot up from their hands. "No. What?" A rapid shake of the head. "No!"

"Ditto for me. Trust me, chou, I'm as startled as you are by my capacity for patience. Growing up, I'm sure a day didn't go by when one or both of my parents didn't tell me to be patient." He grinned. "I sure showed them, didn't I?"

Illya frowned slightly, opened his mouth, realized he didn't have anything satisfactorily snide queued up, and shut his mouth. He frowned to himself as he wondered why his instinctive reaction to anything Solo said was to reply with something sarcastic. Napoleon rarely, if ever, said anything that Illya thought reasonably deserved such a reaction, so how much of a jerk did that make him for responding as he did? How much of an ingrate—horrid creature—selfish buffoon—was he that he automatically lashed out with some nasty remark?

Then again, he wasn't ungrateful, even if he couldn't remember the last time he'd said "thank you" and not been at least partially insincere about it.

He wasn't even selfish, to be fair to himself: he was constantly trying to figure out ways to express his feelings toward his boyfriend, even if those ways generally ended up being nonverbal, nonphysical… but hopefully not unnoticed.

So maybe "horrid" wasn't quite the adjective.

_Cowardly_, he thought, absently tapping at the aspirational sopes that they'd shaped and deciding that eight was probably more than enough for the two of them.

_Cowardly_, echoed again, this time unbidden. Yes, he'd established that he was a coward, so now he could return his concentration to the matter of cooking the dough, he decided as he put the flat-griddle-thing-whatever-it-was-called over the burners and clicked on the electric burner.

_Cowardly_. Yes, thank you. Turn on the other burner under the griddle.

_Coward_.

_Coward_.

_Cowardcowardcowardcoward—_

"That might be too much."

Illya blinked at the griddle thing—_cowardcowardcoward_—registered that it was Napoleon rather than the inanimate object that had spoken to him—_cowardcowardcoward_—and turned his face to blink half-comprehendingly at the American.

"The heat setting," Napoleon clarified. "It's probably too high."

_Coward_. "If it is higher—" _coward_ "—it will cook faster." _Coward_.

"Burn faster." As Illya huffed out a sigh but obligingly lowered the heat, Napoleon shook his head. "Cooking is basically chemistry. It's amazing that you can have both a degree in chemistry and such a questionable grasp on concepts of temperature control."

"Thank you."

"I'm glad you decided to take that as a compliment."

"It was not?"

"You're cute when you play dumb."

Illya looked up from his deep contemplation of the stovetop burners and the heating properties thereof. "For the sake of your dinner's edibility, I will take that as a compliment as well."

Napoleon grinned. "I trust you to not spit in my food."

"You think me so crude?" Illya dropped one of the sopes onto the griddle. "There are far more interesting ways of compromising the integrity of your comestibles."

"Such as?"

The Russian responded with one of his rare, all-out grins.

"Well, that's concerning."

"Thank you."

* * *

_The next day_

_With Dr. Egret_

The wonders of modern technology. Andrew Park and his hideout may have gone up spectacularly in flames, but his records were even more spectacularly up, in the Cloud. Quite frankly, Egret preferred it that way: having Park's work without the man himself contaminating it with that revolting essence that more charitable people might have been inclined to call his personality.

She gave her chief scientist (who very considerately kept her own essence tamed to Egret's tastes) a few more minutes to review Park's lab notes before asking, "And you're sure this is what I want?"

"Yes, Dr. E, based on Park's notes, I'm sure that this is what you want, and reasonably sure that it will work as intended."

"How sure is reasonable?"

Dr. Rochelle Maxwell—just Rochelle, in this context, since Egret was the only doctor allowed around here—huffed out a breath. She did it quietly, though, lest it be taken as a personal affront. "He didn't exactly adhere to ethical research standards and get all FDA-approved, and the only test subjects he could get with _his_ reputation were pet-shop rodents, and he says here—" She poked a pinky at her tablet, displaying Andrew Park's lab notes. "—that it, quote-unquote, either works really well or kills the little buggers."

"I—_what?!_"

"It either instills an overwhelming desire to please the controlling party, or it gives the subject a massive stroke. Or a heart attack. Or both."

"I don't want the bugger—I mean, rodent—I mean, dear boy to have a stroke!"

"I'm sorry, Dr. E, but it's either potency or promises."

"Hm." Egret stroked her chin for a moment. "How about percentages?"

Rochelle swiped up and down a bit with her stylus. "Success rate in hamsters is sixty percent. Seventy-five for rats. Seventy-two for mice. Zero for chinchillas."

"I—chinchillas? What did that louse do to his chinchillas?"

"Sample size of one." Rochelle glanced back at the tablet before informing the boss gravely, "Sir Fluffshigoon didn't make it."

"Sir wha—never mind. What's your judgement on this, Rochelle?"

"Start him at a half-dose."

"Will that be enough to work?"

"Well, not—"

"How fast does it start working, again?"

"Thirty minutes for initial reaction. Forty to sixty for full effect. In small rodents."

"What if we gave him half, waited an hour, made sure he didn't die, and then gave him the other half? If he's not dead, I mean."

Rochelle shrugged. "Should be alright. Just keep talking to him the whole time, to make sure your voice imprints properly."

Egret nodded. "Get things going in the lab." Hopefully, the survival rate of Russians would surpass that of chinchillas.

* * *

_The next week_

Sometimes Illya wondered what was wrong with him.

Well… not _wrong_, according to Dr. Boateng. _Different_. Because _wrong_ had a tendency to carry with it some unspoken assignment of blame or badness, and for some reason Boateng had resolved that, in his professional opinion, Kuryakin was not a bad person.

Even though his parents had died horribly, and it had to do with Illya's actions.

Even though he was gay—although, to be fair, he wasn't even particularly good at it if you measured it by numbers of relationships, or intimate encounters, or propensity for rainbow-colored garments—and yes, he knew logically that there wasn't anything wrong with liking men or disliking rainbows, but somehow some of the more unpleasant cultural mores had managed to seep into his brain and obnoxiously refused to vacate the premises.

Even though he found it trying to deal with perfectly nice people like Gerry the secretary, or Mandy the translator in Pyatigorsk, or Mark's family, or Napoleon's family, or that professor who kept organizing get-togethers for the Computer Science department and still hadn't gotten the hint that Illya responded to get-togethers much the same as he did to dental work:

NO.

This, right now, wasn't much better than the much-dreaded CS department meet-ups: a graduation party for Napoleon, April, and Mark. The good thing was that most of the attendees were either preoccupied with their respective graduate or had gotten some inkling by now that Illya wasn't a big talker: only Mark's uncle, April's parents, and Napoleon's parents and Aunt Amy were here in the apartment.

Ashley Slate had seemed satisfied with _Hello_ and no lingering signs of resentment over their initial meeting in England.

April's parents had tried to engage him in conversation when April had been hanging out with him for a while, but April had mercifully wandered away after a short while and her family accordingly followed after.

Aunt Amy was helping Napoleon put dinner together, which took care of her for the time being, but that still left him with Solo's mother and father.

Well, mother.

Mr. Solo generally made an attempt to talk with him but, as soon as he realized Illya was making only the bare minimum in terms of response, tended to quickly wind down the conversation. And that was what had happened today.

Mrs. Solo generally made an attempt to talk with him and, as soon as she realized Illya was making only the bare minimum in terms of response, redoubled her efforts to _draw him out of his shell_. She'd clearly noticed that Illya would do more than the bare minimum when Napoleon was close by, and it seemed she thought she could coax him into doing so even when his boyfriend wasn't in the immediate vicinity.

He'd wish her luck, but that would run counter to his own interest.

"So how do you feel about Napoleon starting his job?" Mrs. Solo asked. Napoleon had finally gotten around to disclosing to his parents his career with U.N.C.L.E., afterward reporting to Illya that, as was often the case in telling them things, they had taken it better than he'd expected.

"It does not matter how I feel about it," Illya returned. "He will do what must be done regardless of my emotional status."

"I didn't ask whether you have any say in it, Illya. I asked how you feel about it."

Illya furrowed his brow, counting the white dots on Mrs. Solo's navy flats as he tried to determine what answer would lead to the quickest resolution of this conversation. "I feel fine," he decided, and her sympathetic smile told him that that had been the wrong answer. She had probably taken the noncommittal response as a means of covering up some other emotion. He slated this conversational failure for future correction.

"It can be hard, just being at home, wondering if he's okay, but Napoleon's smart. Lucky. He knows how to take care of himself, both for himself and for his family." She squeezed his arm briefly enough that he managed not to flinch. "That includes you."

Illya blinked and returned hesitantly, "Family?"

Mrs. Solo nodded brightly. "Maybe not officially—legally—but… has Napoleon talked to you about marriage yet?"

"Marriage?" _Yet?_

Another nod.

Illya blinked harder to restrain his eyes from popping too far out of his skull. "Yet? You expect… but—but I am Russian," he finished lamely, not entirely sure why that was what popped out of his mouth, but it had been the first semi-reason he could offer for why he shouldn't—couldn't—wouldn't be getting married. And that, he supposed, was a bit odd, but he didn't have time to contemplate the workings of his subconscious since Mrs. Solo was already countering his feeble rationale.

"You can get married here even if it's not legal to do it in Russia."

"But…." He jumped at the hand suddenly on his shoulder.

"Soup's on, folks," Napoleon said from behind him. He frowned at the wide-eyed expression that met his greeting. "You alright, chou?"

"I… yes, fine." His eyes flicked over to Mrs. Solo. "Yes… fine. I—I think I will lie down for a moment. Yes. I will eat later." He shrugged out from Napoleon's grasp and hurried to his room: technically still his room and the primary repository of his belongings, although he didn't sleep there anymore.

As the bedroom door shut, Napoleon raised his eyebrows at his mother.

She smiled sheepishly. "I take it you two haven't discussed getting married yet."

"_Mom_, I told you not to—Jesus, Mom!"

"Well, you love him and he loves you and it's kind of a normal thing for people who love each other to do…"

"Illya isn't normal people, Mom! He's… yes, we're serious about each other and I want—I'm gonna see if he'll talk to me." He offered a grin and gestured to the dining area. "Go ahead and dig in."

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Solo offered. "I didn't mean—"

"It's fine. And if he's not, he will be." He gave her a quick one-armed hug on his way past. "I'll join you ASAP," he promised as he went to Illya's bedroom door. He rapped at the wooden barrier a couple of times. "Hey, Illya?" No reply, and Napoleon hoped his boyfriend hadn't locked himself in for the rest of the evening. "Illya?"

_"Yes,"_ returned through the door.

"Can I come in?"

_"Yes."_

Suppressing a sigh of relief, Napoleon let himself in and shut the door again before looking to Illya: shoes off, cross-legged on the bed, head bowed as he traced the lines of stiches on the bedding with a few fingers.

"I understand you had an interesting conversation with my mom."

A shrug, and he switched to playing with the hem of his left pant leg.

"It's, uh, that upsetting to you?"

Silence, and Napoleon took the interval to come over and sit on the edge of the bed—not touching, but within arm's reach. He waited quietly until Illya finally spoke up, flatly: "Your mother thinks you want to marry me. Is she wrong?"

Solo hesitated before hedging, "I want to be with you."

"That does not answer the question."

"I don't want to answer the wrong way."

"Then answer honestly."

"Honestly, I don't know. I mean, I do know but I don't—I mean, because—well… you know?"

Illya scoffed quietly.

"Let me try that again."

"At last, some entertainment this evening."

Napoleon took a breath. "I want to—damn, I actually want to say this but now isn't… damn."

Illya lifted his chin enough to peer over at the American. "Napoleon Solo at a loss for words? Truly this is the world turned on its head."

"I have words. I just don't know if they're the right ones." He offered a hand and Illya took it. "We'll be apart for at least a month, starting pretty soon. Could you… would you mind if we held off on this tête-à-tête until after that?"

"Napoleon…"

Napoleon lifted their joined hands and kissed his knuckles. "Please?"

"I… Napoleon, I don't understand. I cannot even say how I—I cannot even say the kind things you say to me. I do not understand why… this—would be something you might be contemplating." He looked down again, using his free hand to fiddle with the hem of his pant leg. "I know it is only a legal contract, but marriage seems to be something taken as a rather serious—_condition_ by many societies. If it is something you are considering… I feel rather stupid."

"You are, hands down, the least stupid person I know—" Illya's brow furrowed and his jaw clenched. "—but why do you feel stupid?"

"Perhaps not stupid… yes, stupid. An agonizing lack of perception can contribute to one's designation as 'stupid', can it not?"

"Hypothetically speaking, yes, but I'm still not calling you stupid because you're not."

"I did not realize you were in—in… _chert_, it left again." Illya sighed, repeated, "I did not realize you were in…" and briefly waved his free hand in small circles before returning it to its task of fabric-fiddling.

"Love," Napoleon supplied.

"…until you explicitly informed me of the same. I did not realize you were contemplating m-marriage until a few minutes ago. And I still do not understand why either of those things should be the case." He pulled his hand free of Napoleon's. "Perhaps I have some mechanistic variety of intelligence, Napoleon, but as a human… truly I am stupid."

Napoleon shook his head as Illya's dropped until his hair blocked his profile from view. He put a hand on the nearer cross-legged knee. "No, Illya—"

Illya jerked his knee away and abruptly turned, drawing his thighs to his chest and directing his back to the American. "You. Are not. _Listening_."

At the ground-out words, Napoleon objected slowly, "I am listening. It just happens that I disagree with you." He reached out to touch the Russian again, but changed his mind and withdrew his hand. "Just because you don't pick up on emotional matters as quickly as you think you should… that doesn't mean you're stupid."

"What does it mean, then?"

"The way you were raised—the way your brain works—intellectual things come first. Intellectual things come easily. You've had to work harder to learn emotions."

"And I have failed."

"You are still learning," Napoleon corrected. "You think I know what the hell I'm doing, relationship-wise?"

"I have thus far deferred to your expertise."

"That doesn't answer the question."

"It implies the answer." When Napoleon paused long enough to make clear he expected a straightforward answer, Illya said, "Yes, I think you know what you're doing."

"I don't."

"And again I fail at perception."

"Illya, don't do this to yourself. To me."

"Do what? No… now is not the time. We have guests. Convey my apologies, but I've an intestinal upset and will not be rejoining the festivities."

"Now has to be the time. I'm being briefed for an assignment tomorrow and I don't know when I'll be sent off somewhere." Napoleon let out a breath. "Does your stomach actually hurt?"

Illya visibly tensed. "You call me a liar and expect us to talk? Return to our guests."

"Illya…"

"Go."

"Illya—"

"_Go_."

"I can match you blow for blow on stubbornness, pal. You don't have to go back out there, but I'm not going right now either. I know you, Illya. If you're being this transparent about it, that means it's been bothering you for a good long time… so it's about time we address it."

Illya's shoulders raised.

"Can we do that?"

"No."

"Illya—"

"_No_."

"Why not?"

"I do not want to."

"For the love of—oh! _Oh_…"

Illya's shoulders drooped.

Napoleon chuckled dryly and got to his feet. "So you know that I know, huh? I told you, Illya. I know you."

"Know what?" Illya returned in such a dull tone that Napoleon immediately killed his grin even though the younger man wasn't looking at him.

"You're intentionally antagonizing me."

"Why should I do such a thing?"

"That part, I don't know," Solo admitted. "And that's what we're going to talk about once I've gone ahead and made sure everyone's started eating. Okay?"

A small sigh and a smaller nod.

"Okay. I'll be right back."

As soon as Napoleon left the room, Illya groaned and punched himself in the knee, then grunted and rubbed his knee vigorously since his knee had not particularly appreciated that meeting. He almost whacked himself in the head after that, but then determined that his brain outranked his knee and ought therefore to be excused from corporal punishment.

Worse and worse. But that was presumably to be expected when people spent so much time with each other: they got to know each other. And so Napoleon had gotten to know him. Not to read his mind, of course, but picking up on things faster, faster, faster than he used to while Illya… well, he hadn't had to exaggerate that part: he truly was a failure at reading people.

And he was getting worse and worse.

At hiding his emotions. Containing them. Controlling them…

…no. No, that wasn't strictly true. It was only around Napoleon that it was getting worse.

Or better. Was it good that Napoleon was getting so good at reading him? Bad? Bad, good, worse, better… in any case, things were changing. They were getting better or worse, and that was good or bad, and now all he had to do was figure out what was and wasn't and why and how and—

—and his vision went blurry from the mental dizziness of all the what's and who's and why's, so he shook his head to physically knock out the confusing jumble and decided to approximate the square roots of three-digit prime numbers until Napoleon returned, as that seemed less of a headache.

* * *

"I just thought since you love each other and you have a dangerous job, you might want him to have that security."

"Security?"

"Security."

"Mom, this isn't the nineteenth century. Illya isn't a housewife with limited opportunities for economic self-sufficiency. And now isn't the time to talk about this. Illya isn't feeling well so I'm going to sit with him for a little bit. I'll make sure to pop back out later."

"Napoleon—"

Napoleon stopped his turning away when his mother abruptly cut herself off, and she took his arm to move him a bit further from the dining table before quietly resuming her aborted speech. "What did you mean that Illya 'isn't normal people'? You didn't just mean that he's different because you love him, I think."

He put a hand over hers. "I have to check up on him," he insisted softly.

"Is he—well, if he's been having trouble because of his parents' passing—"

"Not now, Mom. Please?"

By the time Napoleon reentered the bedroom, Illya had moved to sit in the armchair between the bookcase and the window. Still cross-legged, head dropped.

"Alright." Napoleon plopped himself down on the bed, adopting a less slouched-over version of Kuryakin's posture. "Let's talk. You, uh… would you like to start us off?"

Illya shook his head. "Why can you not let it be?"

"You know why."

"I know why. I do not understand why. And that is why this will not work, Napoleon."

"What won't work?"

"Us."

"Do you mean that you don't understand love generally, or why we love each other particularly?"

"Both but—no, you—" Illya punched the arm of the chair before resuming his fiddling with his pant leg. "You are making me talk about it and I do not want to talk about it!"

"You don't?"

"No, we—it is for the best that we do not part on amicable terms."

"Why?"

"No, if I tell you, that will make it better and… you will be understanding and I will feel—_feel_—and you—ah, _chert_…." Blond hairs flew as Illya abruptly looked up in response to Napoleon's loud gasp and the thump of Solo's hand flying to his chest in a gesture of shock. "What? What is it?"

"Language!"

"It… only means 'damn'."

"I know."

Illya blinked.

Napoleon grinned.

Illya attempted a sigh but it ended up sounding more like a breathy laugh.

"Can we please talk now?"

"You should specialize in interrogation. Yes, we can talk." He leaned back in the armchair and asked casually, "What would you like to talk about?"

"Illya…"

"Fine. I believe it would be in our collective best interest to not part on good terms when you go on assignment and I go for the training session. We ought either to terminate the relationship entirely or part on bad terms." He briefly swept a hand toward Solo. "Now you talk."

"Okay. I disagree with your assertions and would like you to further explain. Your turn."

"If we part on bad terms, we—we will not… miss each other."

"_**AHA!**_" Napoleon clapped a hand over his mouth before chuckling and unhanding himself. "Sorry. My volume was directly proportional to my shock and dawning comprehension."

Illya smiled weakly.

"God, Illya, why can't you—" Solo cut himself off. Frustrating as Kuryakin's roundabout ways of expressing feelings could be, Illya was sensitive enough about his difficulties without having anyone else pile on. "I sort of get it now—both the 'what' and the 'why'—but I still disagree."

Illya frowned. "Elucidate, please."

"Why I disagree? Okay. First of all, do you want to break up?"

"Yes—no—I should but I do not."

"Why should you 'should' want to?"

Illya shook his head and clenched his teeth.

"Okay, we can discuss that later. The important part is that you don't want to even if you think you should." Napoleon nodded firmly. "You don't want to. I don't want to. Ergo we are not breaking up. Fair?"

Illya's jaw pulsed as he clenched his teeth again, but he eventually murmured, "Yes. Fair."

"Can we cover the part about thinking we should part on bad terms now?"

A short nod.

"Okay, then this is why I disagree with your opinion on that: if we part on bad terms, I'll worry about it. Maybe it will distract me from the assignment. Maybe something would unnecessarily go wrong. Then you'd worry that the bad thing had happened because you distracted me, so you'd feel bad for having deliberately put some distance between us."

"I'd worry that the bad thing had happened because I distracted you, and I'd pity you your lack of focus," Illya corrected coldly, and narrowed his eyes when Napoleon smiled in a way that suggested he didn't believe that for a second.

"And in addition to your _pitying_ me," Napoleon smirked, "if we part on bad terms, you'll worry that you pushed too hard and did irreparable damage to our relationship." He got up and moved to sit on the arm of Illya's chair. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong."

He dropped an arm across Kuryakin's shoulders, kissed the top of his head, and amended, "Tell me I'm wrong, and mean it."

"You… are infuriating."

"And you… have a lot to learn."

Illya frowned harder at that non-sequitur.

"About anti-interrogation techniques," Napoleon clarified. "A good-looking fella makes you laugh once, and you surrender the info?" He tutted.

"Have I ever mentioned that you are an insufferable egomaniac?"

"Have I ever mentioned how gorgeous your eyes are?"

"Have I ever mentioned that it hurts my brain when you respond to my insults with flattery?"

"Have I ever mentioned how precious you are to me?"

Illya folded his arms and slouched down, but the American hand on his shoulder followed. "I do not understand why you are kind even when I am unkind."

"Because—"

"I know it is because of your feelings toward me, but I do not understand why you do feel that way."

"Because—"

"I know it is because 'I am me', but I do not understand how that is at all…." Kuryakin shook his head. "I _know_, Napoleon. I know, but I do not understand."

"You don't have to understand everything."

"It is what I fancied I was good at." A dry smile. "This is, I imagine, how you would feel if you discovered that most people found you singularly unattractive."

"Ouch. Much as I'd like to pretend I don't know what you're talking about… yeah, I think I sort of get it." He pressed his hand to one side of Illya's head and a kiss to the other. "But I think this is a case where you might not have to understand everything. As long as you understand enough, the rest—well, the rest you can just accept."

"I will… try." Illya took the hand still playing with the hair over one ear. "My stomach is not so upset now." He got to his feet. "Let us return to the festivity."

Napoleon grinned. "So did you mean literally that your stomach was upset, or were you using that as code for your mind being upset?"

"Both. There is the expression, yes?"

"Hm?"

"The way to a man's mind is through his stomach."

"Heart, not mind."

"Yes. The way to a man's heartburn is through his stomach."

"Can't argue with that."

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading, :D


	2. Act II: Let me help you out

**A/N:** Oh, look, a plot!

* * *

Act II: Let me help you out

_Sixteen years ago_

_Kansas_

'_Away from light steals home my heavy son and private in his chamber pens himself…'_

Napoleon's eyes remained glued to the pages for the entire car ride.

'…_Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight and makes himself an artificial night…'_

He didn't look up as the car stopped and the back door of the vehicle was opened.

'_Black and portentous must this humour prove unless good counsel may the cause remove.'_

His gaze finally wrenched itself from the words as his feet automatically began ascending the porch steps. Home again.

No. Never again.

Napoleon shook his head as Dad unlocked the door.

Stared as Mom and Dad went inside.

Closed his eyes as Mom called for him to join them.

"No," he said quietly.

"Napoleon?" Her voice was nearer, her footsteps approaching. "Nappy, come inside, dear."

Opened his eyes and shook his head violently.

"Sweetie—"

"I'm not going in," he said firmly.

Dad joined Mom by the door.

"I'm not going in there."

"I know it's hard, kiddo," Dad said, coming over to put an arm around his shoulder, "but this is home. It'll be okay."

"No!" Napoleon yelled as Dad started urging him inside. He slipped out from his father's grip and jumped back down the stairs, hugging the book tightly enough to shear the pages, almost breaking the spine. "It's not home! We can't be home!"

* * *

_Present day_

_U.N.C.L.E.-New York_

"This, Mr. Solo, is a collection of clocks featuring, as decoration within the pendulum case, samples of a mineral called aztenite, which has as its single largest constituent the element tellurium."

Napoleon nodded, flipping through the narrow photo album before him. Aztenite… god, please say this didn't mean he was going to Mexico.

"The collection was crafted by a silversmith in Taxco, Mexico—" _Dammit._ "—and the aztenite samples originated in the Mexican state of Sonora." _Double dammit._ "They are the largest known sample globally and will likely remain so, as aztenite is endemic to Sonora and its source mine collapsed at the turn of the twentieth century."

"So it's rare," Napoleon remarked slowly. "Is it also valuable?"

"Its only practical application is in lasers, and its rarity is such that nobody has bothered actually using it for such, as other materials are cheaper and much more readily available. It is made attractive by its silver encasements and its being an historical memento, but is not in itself considered particularly impressive." Waverly puffed at his pipe for a moment, during which Solo entertained hopes of not having to head south of the border. "In short, Mr. Solo, no. It is not considered valuable by anybody save, perhaps, Victor Marton."

At Waverly's nod, Napoleon opened the file folder on the table before him to a photograph and brief profile of Marton.

"Mexican government intelligence has reason to believe that Monsieur Marton is determined to procure the aztenite samples featured in the clock collection, which is housed in a museum in Punto Viejo, a small city in Sonora. As the clocks are considered of historic significance but the aztenite is not, the government has asked us to procure the samples before Marton does, and then to return the clocks to their home museum, sans aztenite."

"And what is to become of the aztenite, sir?" Napoleon asked, hopes dashed upon the ridges of the Sierra Madre.

"We will be permitted to keep it in trust for the Mexican government for one year. If they determine they've no use for it, they will allow us to keep it and use it as we see fit."

"I see." Napoleon tapped himself on the chin a couple of times. "So, why doesn't somebody with the museum extract the aztenite and then just put the clocks back on display?"

"We want Monsieur Marton to believe he has the aztenite, and that it simply was not as useful as he had imagined, in order to preclude any future advances of his against the material."

Waverly motioned with his pipe and Solo flipped to the next page in the file folder, taking in the image of an attractive dark-haired man who did not seem in the least perturbed that the photo being taken of him was a mugshot.

"This is Rafael Delgado, a jewel thief. Some call him the Kind of Diamonds, as those are his preferred targets. He will be your partner in crime, so to speak, in exchange for our having persuaded Australian authorities to release him into our custody. If you find his services satisfactory, he will then be released to Mexican authorities who will supervise his probation as he serves out a term of community service."

"And how does Mr. Delgado tie in with Mr. Marton, sir?"

"Mr. Delgado will make no secret of his being back in Mexico. He and Marton have had several dealings in the past, and so we fully anticipate that Marton will seek out his services in obtaining the aztenite. You, Mr. Solo, will present yourself as Mr. Delgado's assistant."

"Apprentice jewel thief, of sorts?"

"If you like." Another puff of his pipe. "Mr. Delgado, in association with his profession, has also become quite proficient at handling some of the delicate operations of a jeweler. While the clocks are in your possession, he will remove the material before you return the artifacts, then present some facsimile of the aztenite to Monsieur Marton. Mr. Alsaqri in our labs has prepared a reasonably close set of mineral samples to serve this purpose. It is similar enough in appearance to be convincing, but its lack of tellurium content will ultimately render it a disappointment."

Napoleon opened the crushed-velvet bag and peered inside to the deep green, crystalline mineral, nodding when Waverly informed him that it was malachite, some of which would be fitted into the clocks by Delgado, and the rest of which would be handed over to Marton.

"Ah, and one more thing, Mr. Solo." Waverly pressed a button on the table and a projected image appeared on the wall. "This is the chamber in which the clock collection resides." He continued tapping at buttons on the table and the scene rotated back and forth as if controlling a video camera. "It is from a 3D tour available through the museum's website, produced prior to the acquisition of the collection. These ivory combs in the case at the center of the room have since been replaced by the clocks."

"I see."

"This is what I would like to draw your attention to." Waverly manipulated the image until the view was focused on a display case in the corner. "Rather an impressive display of jewels, is it not?"

Solo took in the array of rings and necklaces. "Yes, sir, it is."

Waverly nodded toward the photos still set before Solo. "And Mr. Delgado is rather an impressive jewel thief. In the course of this assignment, I expect you to assist him in resisting temptation."

Napoleon half expected Waverly to continue with "by any means necessary", but the chief was looking at him with a dull eyebrow-raise by this point, so he supplied the requisite "yes, sir" and assumed this meant he was to stop short of assassination whilst assisting the retention of Delgado's integrity. Which was good, of course, but not quite dramatic enough for Napoleon's aesthetic sensibilities.

* * *

_That night_

"I leave in the morning."

"Can you tell me where?"

"Somewhere in Mexico, is all I can tell you."

"That is good. You can practice your Spanish."

"Sí. Que bueno, eh?"

"For you, yes. Not for all the unfortunate Mexicans who will be subjected to your accent."

"Your Spanish accent isn't all that either, pal."

"It is not my accent that will be assailing their senses, so it is a moot point." Illya flicked off the light and joined Napoleon under the sheet, pulling the material up to his chin. He looked pained as he turned to the American with: "Do try to contain your enthusiasm when rolling your R's."

Napoleon was quiet for a moment, admiring the play of the dim light from the window on the crystalline eyes peering up at him, then smirked and gave a half-purr, half-growl meant to evoke thoughts of a tiger.

The pain turned to exasperation as the pale eyes rolled, and Napoleon was to no degree disappointed that the pale skin remained unflushed. Not at all.

"Rest assured, horobchyk, I purr only for you."

"You have never purred for me in your life, Napoleon," the Russian returned matter-of-factly, and the American was definitely not even a little sad that the tone betrayed not even a little bit of flusterment. Nope.

"Not yet. Maybe that's something we can work on after my assignment and your training session."

The blue orbs shifted away, and Napoleon was positively not treading the thin line between normal behavior and self-satisfied crowing as a delicate pink finally found its way to Illya's cheeks. "Perhaps."

"Then it's a date. Perhaps." Napoleon waited until the blush had left the nearby profile before reaching across the short distance to weave their fingers together and ask softly, "You'll be okay? While I'm gone, I mean."

A steeply arched eyebrow was the first response, followed up by an equally pointed, "Perhaps I'll not be as deliriously happy as I am in this moment, but I expect I can manage to achieve 'okay'."

"We'll be okay?"

"I told you that I will be okay. If you can manage the same, then yes: collectively, we will be okay."

"I mean… you'll still love me when I return?"

The arched brow joined its companion in furrowing. "Have you plans to do anything that might change my opinion of you while we are apart?"

"No, but since we probably won't see each other for at least a month—"

"I will not forget how I... feel about you." He offered a faint smile. "I trust you will not become overly enamored of any enchanting señoritas during your adventure abroad."

"You can trust that. You can trust me, chou."

"Yes. I can." Illya nodded sharply. "And I will."

Napoleon grinned. "And I can trust you?"

Illya blinked rapidly. "Pardon?"

"To not be enamored of a handsome fella who can make you laugh."

Blink. "I imagine so. I go to get training, not to get distracted."

"Well, I'm going to do business-y things, not to get distracted."

Frown.

"Okay, I see your point. I was joking, anyway. Mostly."

"Let us not start with petty jealousies. You have stated your devotion to me and, to the unwarranted benefit of your ego, I have thus far given no indication that I could possibly be remotely attracted to a person other than you. The matter is settled, is it not?"

"Yes, of course. Do, uh… do you think you could do something for me when you aren't busy with training?"

"Is that something within reason?"

"I think so."

"Then yes."

"You said that you love me."

The flush that definitely did not make Napoleon's heart grow three sizes definitely did return to Illya's face. "I did."

"And we discussed the possibility of our being an 'us' stretching several years into the future."

A blink and a pause. "Alright."

"And my mother oh-so-helpfully brought up the subject of marriage."

Another blink, then the blond head shook briefly as if shaking its owner out of a daze. He lifted his head to glance at the bedside clock. "We were supposed to be getting to sleep four minutes ago. Are you going to be getting to your little favor soon?"

"This isn't a proposal, but I'd appreciate if you could devote a few neurons to considering the question of whether you'd ever consider the idea of getting married to anything other than your work."

A couple more blinks, almost fluttering his eyelashes in their rapidity. "If those devoted neurons are the ones that just exploded, I am afraid you are out of luck."

"Just think about it. That way, if I ever do pop the question, I can be reasonably certain you won't have a heart attack or an overwhelming urge to stab me in the eyeballs."

Illya frowned. "I still do not see why marriage is something you would ever consider."

Napoleon hesitated. "Do you mean in the abstract 'ew, marriage sucks' sense, or the particular 'marriage as it pertains to Napoleon Solo' sense?"

"The latter. I have some grasp on the broader societal implications."

"Well… it's a promise, right? Two people make a promise that they'll love each other and care for each other and be together forever."

"'Til divorce do them part."

"In some cases, yes. But it can work out, you know. Can be good for people."

"So when you ask me to… contemplate marriage, you mean to ask whether I think I would be willing to make such a promise under an assumption that it shall not be for naught."

"I guess I do."

"I… don't know."

"That's why I want you to think about it."

"Ah." Illya simply stared into the brown eyes for over a minute before blurting, "You've already thought of it."

Napoleon hummed and nodded.

"But this is not a proposal."

"Right."

"But you are considering it."

"I plead the fifth until you've set your neurons to considering the matter."

"That means yes."

Napoleon made a lip-zipping motion and smiled.

"If you're sufficiently traditional that you would consider marriage…."

After allowing several seconds for Illya to go on without prompting, Napoleon urged quietly, "Yes?"

The pink on the cheeks started migrating southward. "We've not yet slept together—euphemistically I mean. And we are not—married."

"Yes."

Pinker. "Then if you, hypothetically and without incriminating yourself, might want to get married… should we… wait?"

Napoleon processed this for a moment, wasn't entirely clear on what was being asked, and echoed back, "Should we wait?"

Red. "I mean, you already have been. Waiting. But… if we do—_get married_," Illya practically choked on the words, "should we deliberately continue waiting to sleep together—euphemistically—until we… it's done?"

Another moment to synthesize the around-the-point tiptoeing, until he came up with, "Wait for sex until after marriage?"

Redder. Nod.

"I—" Napoleon cut himself off with a chuckle. "Well, I didn't wait for my first time, but if you want to wait for marriage for us to have _our_ first time—"

"I meant to ask what you want," Illya cut in, tugging up the sheet enough to cover his flushed face from the nose down.

"I want whatever you're comfortable with. Whatever makes you feel good and right. If we never get married but we have sex, that's fine. If we get married and wait until then for it, that's fine. I love you, I desire you, I've done both pretty much since we met, and I expect to keep doing both for a long, long time."

Now he tugged the sheet over his head, and the muffled words floated up: "I will think about it."

"Thank you." He pressed a kiss to the bit of blond that was still visible. "Good night."

* * *

_In the morning_

"I feel that I should tell you something."

"Generally a safe assumption."

"I may have put in a good word for Mandy Stevenson."

Illya blinked at a banana slice. Then he blinked at some of the oatmeal surrounding it. When both failed to offer any inspiration, he blinked at Napoleon. When Napoleon blinked back, he said, "I appreciate your wanting to tell me things, but of what concern is that to me?"

Napoleon smiled sheepishly. "I guess I got a little ahead of myself. Must have been the overwhelming desire to get my impending strangulation overwith."

"Are you being melodramatic, or is this something serious enough to merit putting down my spoon and retrieving a ligature?"

Solo clenched a hand to his chest. "Melodramatic? How dare you, sir!"

Illya rolled his eyes and resumed his breakfast. He prompted around a mouthful, "So?"

"Do you remember Mandy?"

"The translator at the Pyatigorsk office, yes?"

"Yes. She's interested in becoming a field agent."

"It is good to have goals in life."

"Yes. And, as I am officially a full agent, I'm allowed to vouch for people within the organization. Doesn't necessarily mean they'll make the cut, of course, but I didn't think it'd do any harm to let Mandy have a shot."

Illya chewed on a slightly larger than average piece of banana. "Much as I admire your helping Ms. Stevenson live the dream, I still fail to see how this is relevant to me."

"Well, I know you're not so big on unnecessary socializing and, since she remembers you, she'll probably want to catch up, or possibly look upon you as her most likely companion…"

Illya frowned into his bowl. Mandy Stevenson. Potentially becoming a field agent for U.N.C.L.E. Socializing. Not the New York office, since he was due to leave for training the day after tomorrow, and he could surely manage to avoid her until then—

Ah.

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh, no.

Illya stared into the awkwardly grinning face across the table. "You are sending her to the training session with me."

"I didn't mean to."

A large spoonful, to chew on some food while he chewed on this new development. "I was quite rude to her in Pyatigorsk. Perhaps that will preclude any interactions more strenuous than an exchange of pleasantries."

Napoleon somewhat reluctantly countered, "You were in a bad way then. She might chalk it up to your having been out of sorts."

Illya narrowed his eyes. "I am trying to give you an out so we might part on good terms. As _you_ recommended. Don't argue with me."

"Right. I'm sure she'll still be extremely offended and ignore you entirely."

"You go too far."

"Right. You handle it."

"It has been handled."

"Thanks."

"Not at all. Her presence simply means that I will have less free time to devote to the contemplation of whether I might be open to the possibility of our getting m-ma—muh—huh." Illya glared into his oatmeal and muttered at it, "Another stupid word," before looking at Napoleon again. "You understand my meaning, yes?"

"Yes. In my defense, I didn't realize she would be approved so quickly. I guess it's because she'd already been screened before starting work as a translator."

"Indeed."

"And it can't be all bad. I mean, you must have something in common."

"Certainly."

"And surely she—"

"Napoleon."

"Hm?"

"I would like to enjoy your company."

"Wha—oh." Napoleon smiled sheepishly, and they enjoyed each other's company for the rest of the meal.

Afterward, Napoleon packed his bag, feeling rather flattered when Illya kept him company and chimed in with his opinions on what garments were worthy of international appearances.

This shirt was too Hawaiian. Leave it.

That one looked nice with them. Take it.

"Them?" Napoleon echoed, replacing the Hawaiian-print shirt in his suitcase with the pale green one.

Illya turned away and started flicking through Napoleon's collection of ties. "Your tan," he supplied quietly and then, quieter still, "and your arms."

"You mean my studly biceps that make most of the ladies and at least one of the guys swoon?"

"'Studly' is not a word and your biceps are part of your arms, aren't they?" He tossed a couple of ties in the general direction of the suitcase. "I like these."

Napoleon nodded at one, held up the other. "Not feeling this one, chou."

Illya took it back, flicked through a few more silken fabrics, and held up a second choice that Napoleon accepted before opening the bottom drawer of his dresser and motioning to the trousers within to silently ask for opinions on those.

Illya came over, paused a moment, and removed a couple of pairs, handing the short stack over with, "These make it look nice."

"It?"

Illya drew his head back and flicked his gaze downward just long enough to prompt a slow smile to spread across Napoleon's mouth.

"Why, Mr. Kuryakin, have you been admiring my ass? I feel so objectified."

A slightly shamefaced look later, Illya offered, "I didn't mean to."

"Didn't mean to admire it, or didn't mean to objectify me?" Before Illya could respond, Napoleon chuckled. "It doesn't matter, chou, it's okay. You're allowed to think your boyfriend is hot stuff." He winked and moved to put the pants into the suitcase. "I sure think mine is."

"One of us is wrong."

"Come on, now. No backsies."

The barest of hesitations. "That's not what I meant."

He ducked his chin as Napoleon came to stand very, very close and ask in a bewildered tone, "Then what did you mean? You can't think I hit on you in Spanish class because I admired your well-endowed headphones."

Now he lifted his chin, looking down his nose despite his disadvantage of a few inches. "I can think whatever I please, thank you."

"Of course you can," Napoleon cooed. "I just didn't think you enjoyed being wrong."

Illya let out a puff of air and glared at the suitcase. "Do you want me to help dress you or not?" Realizing how else this could be interpreted, he looked back to Napoleon with wide eyes and attempted, "I mean—"

"I know what you mean, tiger, but we agreed the purring was to be left until later."

Illya opened his mouth as if to argue that that wasn't what he meant, seemed to realize that Napoleon knew that already, and slouched back to the closet to grab one of the American's suit jackets and toss it over his shoulders.

"You should leave before I say something stupid," was the punctuation mark.

"Like 'I love you'?" Napoleon quipped.

"A four-letter word may be involved, yes."

"Well, fiddle-dee-dee, darlin', I didn't think you'd be so forward!"

Illya made a strangled sound in the back of his throat and went over to the suitcase, zipping it shut and hauling it out of the room.

"I'll miss you too, mon chou!" Napoleon called after him.

"Go away or you will miss your flight and the world will end or something," came back from the living room.

Napoleon chuckled and joined Illya over by the front door. He grinned and picked up the suitcase that had been deposited nearby. "I love you."

"Ditto."

"I'll miss you."

"Ditto."

"I think Napoleon is the most dashing figure of a man I've had the pleasure of meeting."

"Amusing choice of adjective."

Napoleon pouted, but shortly after had to suppress a smile as Illya leaned forward. Then he leaned in closer and Napoleon asked, "Did you want something?"

The corners of Illya's lips pulled up slightly and he took a small step forward.

"Gosh, Illya, do you expect me to read your mind?"

The blond head tilted to one side and, while Napoleon would have liked to draw this out a little longer, he really did have a flight to catch, so he tilted his head in the opposite direction and moved in to catch the offered lips with his own, using his free arm to press the shorter frame close to himself. He still wasn't sure why Illya seemed to prefer making this silent request for a kiss over taking the initiative himself, but he kind of liked it.

Once they'd parted, Napoleon returned to press another peck to the mouth and commented, "You know, you are allowed to just go ahead and kiss me more than once a week."

"I like when you kiss me," Illya countered, taking the suitcase and setting it down, then reaching around to help Napoleon into his suit jacket before pressing the suitcase back into his hand.

"Well, as long as it's getting done somehow, I don't mind who gets the ball rolling."

Illya opened the door and stepped aside. "Go save the butterflies, or whatever it is you're going to do."

"Go read instruction manuals, or whatever it is you're going to do." He pressed his lips to the smooth cheek, wondered again how often the baby-faced Russian had to trim his facial hair, and quipped, "But don't forget to shave first."

Illya gave him a shove into the hallway and whacked the door shut behind him.

"I'll call you as soon as I can," Napoleon hollered at the wooden barrier, "light of my life!"

_"You'd better,"_ was the response, so Napoleon smiled, set his bag on the floor, and started rolling it away down the corridor.

* * *

_Elsewhere in the building_

It was a nice little apartment. Not quite as luxurious as she'd have expected in the heart of Manhattan, but well-appointed with fantastic views and some very interesting neighbors.

"Marton mentioned something about the doorman being quite familiar with Ravel, didn't he?" Egret commented, and Rochelle nodded.

"Thomson was on Ravel's payroll."

"On mine now, I suppose?"

Rochelle nodded again. Flipped through a few papers Ravel had left for them. Handed over one of them.

Egret scanned the page, repressed a fiscally responsible scream of agony, and handed back the sheet. "Get ahold of him. For what I'm paying that man o' doors, he'll be more than delighted to start earning his keep."

* * *

_That night_

He was gone.

Illya shook his head at himself. Of course he was gone. They'd kissed goodbye and he'd be back soon. Illya would be gone and back a little less soon and then they'd be together and that's all there was to it.

Illya flicked down the covers and climbed in. Looked to the other side of the bed.

Had the other pillowcase always been so glaringly bright? So glaringly, obnoxiously, unrelentingly bright with the reflection of light from the window?

Illya shook his head again. Of course it had always been that way. It's just that Napoleon's head was usually there, covering part of the pillowcase with tanned skin and dark hair and distracting Illya from the rest of it with his dental-commercial-white smile.

Perhaps if he closed the curtain. Napoleon always left it open and only closed the blinds behind it partway: something about a flattering ambience from the combination of moonlight and city lights. Nonsense to anyone who had any sense to begin with, but Napoleon insisted and it was hard to argue when that flattering ambience was coloring the look of adoration that Illya had become far too used to being favored with every—

_Illya Nikolayevich, what's happened to you?_

A quick glance around the room reminded him that there was nothing in here worthy of being bathed in anything other than pure darkness, so he flicked back the covers again and rectified the lighting situation.

Illya spread out one arm across the mattress, shifting it up and down to feel all the unoccupied space, all the cool fabric of the sheet. He should be glad of the extra room, of an entire queen-sized bed all to himself, just like he had for the first several nights in this apartment, before he moved into this bed. Napoleon's bed. Their bed. Strictly for sleeping, of course, so Illya should get on that.

Although he did wonder if Napoleon really didn't mind that it was only for sleeping.

Couldn't ask him now, even if he could bring himself to voice the words.

Illya tucked his arm back to his side. Thought a moment and pulled up the other side of the blanket to cover most of the unoccupied pillow. Thought that, in the dark, this made it look as if he'd covered a very flat corpse for decency's sake and accordingly yanked the blanket back down.

He was gone. Back soon. Gone now. But he'd come back. Unless he didn't.

Illya got up and went over to the guest room, his old room.

Climbed into the guest bed, his old bed. Not Napoleon's.

Sheets smelled like laundry detergent. Not like Napoleon.

He scoffed at himself. Of course it was different: why should Napoleon smell like laundry detergent, outside of that one—well. That was irrelevant.

Somewhat more relevant was the fact that he hadn't even noticed how their bed smelled like Napoleon. Not until now, when he noticed the absence of his scent in the guest bed. Was he really so used to Napoleon's scent that it was just normal to him now? It was normal for him to breathe air permeated with the trace of Napoleon's being?

It sounded kind of gross when he thought of it that way but it felt even more gross to be here, alone, and had the laundry detergent always smelled so much of bleach? It felt like it was burning his nostrils, making his eyes water, stopping the air from leaving his throat, clenching his stomach into knots—

He got up and returned to his room, their room, Napoleon's room. Climbed back into his bed, their bed. Pulled the covers up over his head. Breathed deeply. Tried to pretend he wasn't alone.

That he wasn't gone.

He wasn't gone.

Wasn't gone.

Gone.

* * *

_In the morning_

Just one day. He only had to make it through one full day alone before he'd be shipping off for the training session. Only one full day of everything seeming weird, off, not right, but it would have to be his new normal.

He was entrusted to his own care again, so Napoleon and Mark and April didn't have to escort him everywhere. Weird for now, but he was sure he'd be glad of his privacy being returned soon enough.

Napoleon was a full agent now, so he'd be jetting off here and there on a regular basis. Felt wrong for them to be separated, but he knew it was necessary for work and important to maintain some independence from each other.

Still, it was all making everything feel just a little off, a little not-quite-right, and Illya didn't really like this uncertain feeling in the back of his mind that something was… not good.

He sighed at his unwarrantedly poor mood and started downstairs since the best thing to do was probably to inject some normality into his life and go to the office. Besides, if there was one thing he could rely on to never change, it was that Thomson (the doorman) would keep it short and polite, which was how Illya preferred the majority of his human interactions. He did, of course, occasionally enjoy a short and rude human interaction, but only when he was in a particularly foul mood and was the one providing the "rude" end of the conversation.

"Good morning, Mr. Thomson."

"Oh, good morning, Mr. Kuryakin—do you have a minute?"

Great. Solo had barely left a day ago, and now this was falling apart, too. He wasn't quite sure how he could pin this on Napoleon, but maybe he'd come up with something and give him a hard time over it once the American was back from whatever-ing in Mexico. "Certainly."

"Mrs. Brundtland wanted me to tell you something. Said she'd tell you herself, but sometimes it's a while between run-ins with you."

That was the plan. "A shame, indeed."

"The new resident—oh, Ms. Ravel moved out a couple months ago, if you hadn't heard."

So he'd been told at U.N.C.L.E., but that wasn't an acceptable response so: "I hadn't."

"Anyway, the lady who bought the place mentioned to Mrs. Brundtland about having trouble figuring out her smartphone, and Mrs. Brundtland mentioned about your being a computer scientist. Mrs. Brundtland wanted to know if you'd mind helping the lady out a little. Her name's Mrs. Borgia. Widow, I think, and no tech savvy grandkids."

Normally, Illya would leave the neighborliness to the American but, in his absence, perhaps carrying out the job would help him feel that he was making the effort to maintain their relationship while they were apart. Even if that did mean applying his technical expertise to helping an old lady—who he was quite certain he'd rather not have the pleasure of meeting—learn how to text.

Illya glanced at his watch. He didn't strictly have to be in the office for another couple of hours. Might as well get it overwith. "Is she in now, do you know?"

"Hasn't left since I got here, sir."

"Would you call up for me and ask if I may pay her a visit, Mr. Thomson?"

"Yes, sir." Thomson went to the building phone by the door and pressed a couple of buttons. "Good morning, Mrs. Borgia. This is Thomson. Do you remember the young man Mrs. Brundtland mentioned to you, ma'am? …Yes, ma'am. He says he can help you out now, if that's alright with you. …Yes, ma'am. Bye."

Thomson hung up the receiver. "She says to go on up."

"Which apartment is it?"

"8A."

Illya nodded his entirely insincere thanks and headed back to the stairwell. Up to the eighth floor. Apartment 8A. He knocked.

"Come in," a voice called from the other side, so he did—and was immediately seized by the arm, dragged in far enough for the door to be slammed shut behind, and had the barrel of a gun very nearly shoved into his right eye.

As he quickly reassessed the situation now that a firearm had entered the picture, something that could possibly be a second gun was pressed into his back, and the sound of two further weapons being cocked drew his attention to the left and right.

He supposed he should be flattered at the number of guards.

"I think he gets the idea, ladies," an unpleasantly familiar voice came from somewhere beyond the circle of armed women surrounding him, and the one in front accordingly moved off to the right as the others slowly released him and backed off by a couple of steps. The cleared view showed a trim woman seated behind a heavy walnut table.

Dr. Egret, as he remembered her when she was one of his professors at Cambridge.

"Illya, it's been a while," she greeted.

"I take it you do not require assistance with your phone."

She made a show of looking over a paper before her. "I see here in the list of residents of this building, that you share an apartment with… hm… Napoleon Solo?" She looked to him. "Don't you?"

Illya glanced to the guard at his left. "May I put my hands in my pockets or will that agitate your trigger finger?"

"No," Egret snapped. "I know the kinds of things you keep in your pockets."

"May I fold my arms?"

"No. But you have permission to answer everything I ask."

"The answer to your most recent inquiry seems to be in that little paper you have there."

"Are you yourself a part of the U.N.C.L.E.?"

Now that inquiry, Illya wasn't sure how to answer. Saying yes seemed like a bad idea: she might decide that made him a threat to T.H.R.U.S.H. and kill him, or she might try to force him into accessing internal U.N.C.L.E. information. Could saying no do any harm?

He decided on, "I am not an agent," since that was the truth until he completed his training, and that bought him a few extra moments of rumination. If he said no—well, she could kidnap him regardless of what he said…

"That's not what I asked," Egret pointed out, steepling her fingers. "Are you part of U.N.C.L.E.? Agent, enlistee, contractor? Any part."

Both responses had bad consequences associated with them, and answering honestly had a few extra negative outcomes tagged on, so lying it was. "I am not."

"Not what?"

"I am not part of U.N.C.L.E."

"But you are familiar with the organization."

"I know they saved me from a threat of abduction at your hands, Professor."

"You are friends with three U.N.C.L.E. agents."

"'Friends' is a rather strong word," he commented.

"Yes, but is it inaccurate?"

"Yes."

This time, with the slam of one hand on the table, she called him out on the untruth. "You live with Solo. You run with Slate. You let Dancer walk you home from class."

He frowned.

"Yes, I've been watching you, Illya. Did you think I'd give up so easy?"

"Easily," he corrected.

_WHAM_ as the other hand slammed down. "U.N.C.L.E. agents are careful about spending time out in the open with civilians. They're cagey, so people like me can't work out who they're close to. Who they'd be willing to sacrifice information, labor, lives, morals to save. They don't go out together every—" _WHAM_ "—single—" _WHAM_ "—day—" _WHAM_ "—do they, Illya?"

"They do if they fear the civilian is being watched by people like you, madam."

"But they don't fear it so much anymore, do they, Illya? They're all leaving you, aren't they, Illya?" She regained her composure, clasping her hands as she rested them on the surface before her. "Tell me why that should be."

"No organization has unlimited resources," he offered. "They cannot be my personal security indefinitely."

Egret shook her head. "Why would they leave you here, in the same city where I tried to take you, without protection? Why wouldn't they have you relocate?"

"U.N.C.L.E. is not T.H.R.U.S.H. They would not force innocent civilians to relocate against their will. That is kidnapping and that is your line, not theirs."

"Innocent civilians, no, but you are not an innocent civilian: you are a hacker. You could demolish any security system they develop. They would not leave you out in the open, up for grabs… unless they think you can defend yourself."

"There you are, then."

"Why do they think you can defend yourself?"

"I convinced them of it."

"How?"

"Is it not obvious?"

"_How_?"

"Irresistible charm."

_WHAM_.

"Your table-slamming does not intimidate me so you may as well spare your palms."

"Yes. May as well." She leaned back and smiled, and Illya decided that he liked it better when she didn't. Then she stopped smiling and he couldn't quite find it within himself to be relieved as her gaze hardened. "May as well let you have a break from lying to me. I know—" _SLAM _"—you—" _SLAM_ "—hate—" _SLAM _"—this."

Illya feigned a yawn with the final slam of hand on wood. "Hate is a strong word, Dr. Egret. Will you be done with me soon? I imagine we both have more engaging matters with which to occupy ourselves."

Her hands set to folding the paper on the table. "U.N.C.L.E. has not historically kept a lot of information stored on the internet. Really slows down how fast they can transmit intelligence globally. Did you know that?"

Kuryakin opted to take her up on the offer of a break from lying, responding instead with silence.

"And since they aren't about to tell little old me if they decide to fix that little old issue of theirs, I will from time to time have someone… check up on it. Their security has historically been atrocious, don't you think?"

"Quite often."

"Excuse me?"

"I do think on a fairly regular basis, yes."

"Hm. Then perhaps you can tell me what you think of a few new developments I've encountered. February, there seemed to be a few new hoops to jump through on the way to accessing U.N.C.L.E. information."

She paused, so he contributed, "How stimulating for you."

"March, it took twice as long to get in as it used to."

Another stretch of quiet, so he filled it with, "Fascinating."

"April, we couldn't even find the entry portal for a few days."

He anticipated the coming hesitation and offered, "An embarrassment, indeed."

"Last week, worse. Yesterday, gone." She set down the origami bird she'd folded. Leaned forward on her elbows. "Isn't it an amusing coincidence that their digital security improved exponentially right on the heels of their establishing contact with you?"

"For those who are easily amused, it might hold some entertainment value." He looked to the guards at his right. "Mightn't it?"

_SLAM_.

"The durability of your palm is quite impressive, Professor."

Egret smiled. "I think we've wasted enough time, don't you? Shall we see how my little effort at hypnosis is holding up? How about a little Christmas in July?"

At the audio prompt that had previously sent him abruptly into a panic attack, Illya automatically tensed. It wouldn't do to have a panic attack at the thought of having a panic attack, though, so he reminded himself to breathe.

Good posture.

Clench and unclench his toes.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Things started to get fuzzy around the edges, but they weren't swirling.

The ground wasn't dropping out from under him.

His extremities were tingling, but not going numb.

"Hm." Her blurry head tilted and her blurry palm slammed into the table, and this time he couldn't repress the wince that he'd been holding in at the previous poundings. "Ah, there we are. Something, but not at full strength anymore. That's good. I don't want you to be afraid of me, Illya."

She stood and he gritted his teeth harder as Dr. Egret approached.

"Dear, dear boy," she said, and the words couldn't have sounded more uncharacteristic if he'd said them himself. "I misunderstood you before. Now—"

Somehow, his feet felt rooted to the spot, so he closed his eyes as she reached out a hand to his shoulder.

"—now, I understand what you need. I don't know how I misread you so badly when it's really so simple."

Somehow, all the moisture had left his mouth, which didn't seem open to the idea of reversing its clenching motion, so he tried to focus on breathing slowly through his nose as Dr. Egret very gently patted his shoulder. He opened his eyes once the hand withdrew.

"You're going to be very happy with us, Illya."

Somehow, he didn't think he believed that.

"Give me your phone, Illya."

Illya produced his phone, started to hold it out, and let it drop to the floor when his elbow was halfway extended with a flat, "Oops."

Egret smirked humorlessly and snapped her fingers, and one of the henchwomen swiftly retrieved the phone. "Hold that for our dear Illya, won't you? We don't want him distracted by the wonders of technology just yet." She turned back to Illya. "Why don't we have a little chat in the sitting room?"

"I don't suppose this is an offer I can refuse."

"You suppose correctly, as always, my dear."

"I don't suppose it would do much good if I said that being called _that_ by you is affecting my eardrums much as I imagine a power-drill would."

"Well, nobody can bat a hundred: now you suppose wrong. If you don't like it, there's no need for me to overplay my hand." Once she'd appreciated Illya's blinks of surprise long enough, she motioned through the archway to the sitting room. "Shall we?"

He followed her there, sitting on the loveseat she indicated and shifting himself as far as he could to one end as she occupied the other.

"I imagine you have questions," Egret remarked. "You may ask one."

Illya frowned at her equanimity, thought a moment, and decided on, "Am I to stay here or be whisked off to some undisclosed location?"

Egret smiled. "I did consider both options, but I'm sure you'd be most comfortable in your own apartment. Wouldn't you rather stay in your own home?"

Illya blinked. "Not to be picky, but I was under the impression that I was being abducted."

"Only a wee little bit, Illya. Rochelle." She held out a hand and one of her crones dropped half a pill into it. "Illya." She extended her freshly be-pilled hand to the Russian.

"Is this instead to be the matter in which I have no say?"

"Not entirely. It goes in here—" Egret indicated his mouth. "—or else it goes in here," she concluded, indicating his arm and using her thumb to mime a syringe's plunger. She nodded to Rochelle, who this time handed Illya a bottle of water as soon as he'd plucked the tablet from Egret's palm.

Illya took the bottle, holding it up to use as a magnifier as he pinched the pill between his index and middle fingers. Matte. About the same shade as an orange or a traffic cone. No words or other identifying marks printed on it.

"Might I ask what it is before ingesting its contents, one way or the other, Professor?"

"It's your medicine, Illya."

He frowned. This did not look like his medication.

"We're going to be working together, Illya. I promise it won't kill you."

Rochelle made a quiet noise, Egret glared at her, and Illya frowned harder.

"Here or here," Egret repeated, motioning to mouth and arm again. "We're not trying to kill you, Illya. You're too useful."

He sighed and popped the tablet into his mouth and took a swig of water and then actually swallowed the damn orange thing after Rochelle grabbed him by the chin and opened his mouth to check.

"Well done," Egret praised, and Illya wasn't sure whether she was talking to him or Rochelle. "You'll enjoy working with me, Illya. Maybe not now, but you will."

Illya did his best to convey his lack of interest by blanking his expression and ceasing to make any attempts at contributing to the conversating, but Egret didn't seem to mind. The Russian wasn't clamping his hands over his ears and shouting _la-la-la_ at the top of his lungs, so it was fine with her.

* * *

_Museo Regional de Punto Viejo, Mexico_

"Perdón. Estoy buscando—" Solo broke off as the man turned around and he recognized him from the photograph he'd been shown: Rafael Delgado. Who, he sheepishly recalled, spoke perfect English.

"You will find, sir, that most Mexicans appreciate that you are putting in the effort to speak our language and will embrace you for your kindred spirit."

Napoleon felt better.

"You will also find, sir, that I am not most Mexicans."

He felt less better.

"I, Mr. Solo," the man gestured to himself, "am Rafael Delgado. It pains me to have been coerced into stealing something that will forthwith be returned, so perhaps you will agree that, going forward, we will communicate in English. I'm going through enough as it is."

"If memory serves, Mr. Delgado, you could be going through worse. You could be going through several years of a prison sentence right now."

"And instead it has been postponed."

"Commuted."

"This particular sentence, yes."

Solo pulled a dramatic frown. "Why, Mr. Delgado, don't tell me that you don't have every intention of being a fine, upstanding, law-abiding citizen in the near future!"

Delgado pressed one hand to his chest. "I, sir, am an artist. If art is a crime, I must sacrifice myself to its commission."

"Yes, yours is truly the most noble profession. And I'm not opposed to puns, either."

Delgado smiled. "At last I am appreciated. Shall we start casing—that is, shall we have a wander through the museum?"

"Lead the way, my good man."

As they cased—that is, wandered through the museum, Delgado pointed out the features he apparently thought to be of importance while making small talk. "Have you been to Mexico before, Mr. Solo?"

_Oh, shut up. _ Napoleon nodded as the thief gestured to a floor-to-ceiling stained glass window: to the uppermost, center panel with a hinge at the top. "To Acapulco a few times."

"Ah, a delightful place for a vacation, eh?" _Y__ou have no idea._ "Did you watch the cliff divers?" Delgado whistled as he used his pinky to trace an imaginary trajectory for someone leaping from the top window to the floor.

"Yes. Personally, I think I'd prefer climbing up to diving down."

"Well, if you climb up, presumably you will have to get down somehow."

"I have a bit of mountaineering experience. Pretty good with ropes and clambering. Wouldn't call my landing skills particularly catlike."

Delgado nodded sagely. "That sounds reasonable. A landing from certain heights could be rather noisy, anyway."

"And break some ankles."

"Which would be rather noisy, no?"

Napoleon couldn't help but laugh and think that that observation sounded like one Illya would make. "That's exactly what my—uh, roommate would say. He has strange priorities."

"To me, he sounds very reasonable, your 'Uh Roommate'." Delgado waited a moment before adding air quotes ex post facto.

"Oh, good. I don't seem work well with people who have reasonable priorities." Napoleon glanced from floor to ceiling. "And are you also interested in climbing, Mr. Delgado?"

"I have found it useful in my work, yes." Delgado waved him through to the chamber on the left, and the pair walked into the room that (based on the map Napoleon had seen of the museum) was the last before the room housing their target. "There is a little shop I used to buy my equipment at, here in the city. Perhaps we can stop there after we finish our visit here."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

"Ah, isn't that a lovely sight!" Delgado walked quickly to the other side of the room, purportedly to admire a painting there but shifting his gaze intermittently to the side, to a security panel.

"Yes, indeedy-do. I'm afraid I'm not an overly sophisticated consumer of this form of art. Would you say this is a more complex sample of the artist's work?" _Will it be hard to disable?_

"I find it rather primitive, but it is pleasant to look at, no?" _I could do it blindfolded while suffering a migraine and with both hands tied behind my back._ "Let us see the next room. Perhaps there is another sample for us to admire there."

Napoleon nodded and, as they casually headed into the next room, he remarked, "I guess painting isn't really my bag, but I dabble in filmmaking." _You take the non-camera security components; I'll handle the cameras._

Delgado followed the subtle nod of Solo's chin to the security camera mounted in the corner. "Not my favorite medium, but I appreciate it as a creative enterprise." _Well, at least you won't be totally useless._

The display in the center of the room caught their collective eye and they headed over.

"Gosh, isn't that an impressive little collection," Napoleon mused, leaning over the glass case of the display. _These are the clocks we're borrowing._

"Ah. They are—how should I put this?" Delgado smiled. "Cute."

Napoleon grinned. "Priceless antique clocks imbued with the history of your country, and they're 'cute'?"

"Look, they are so small, and not a jewel among them, let alone a diamond—ah!"

The American frowned as his assigned thievery expert headed off to a corner of the room: the corner containing a case containing several large jeweled pieces.

"Now this, Mr. Solo, is truly spectacular. And that—ah, that is stunning!"

Napoleon skirted a couple of children who'd come up to stare into the case with the clocks and joined Delgado at the jewel case. He smiled, "Yes, Mr. Delgado, very impressive." _But no touching._

"Ah, but is this not a superior collection, Mr. Solo? Metals, they shine, yes. But gems—diamonds—they glimmer, they sparkle—they are far more impressive." He stroked his chin and after a moment said thoughtfully, "In many cases, more valuable per gram, as well." _Are you sure you wouldn't be open to the idea of a side gig?_

"Fascinating." _No._

"Perhaps another look at those clocks you seem so fond of will reveal to me how delightful they are." _Fine._

"I'm sure of it, Mr. Delgado." _If you steal anything you're not supposed to steal, I will drag you back to that Australian prison with my bare hands._

Delgado returned to the clocks' case and flashed a smile at the lady who'd just joined the children there. "Ay, que linditos son, señora. Tesoros como esas joyas, ¿no?"

At Delgado's gesture, the children scampered to the jewel case in the corner and the lady followed after, shooting a returning grin and a _gracias_ to Delgado.

With the clock showcase once again to themselves, Napoleon leaned in for a closer look at the contents—or, rather, any sign of anything that would impede the process of getting the contents out of the showcase.

Delgado also leaned in a bit and murmured by Solo's ear, "Clearly the museum agrees with my opinion, Mr. Solo. This is nothing. It is practically an insult to me that you ask me to do this."

"I didn't ask you," Napoleon countered. "My uncle asked you."

"Then it is an insult to you that he asked me to do this." As the lady and the children wandered out of the room, Delgado further lowered his voice to add, "Those little monsters could do this even with their grubby little fingers sticky with sweets."

Napoleon chuckled. "I thought they were 'lindito tesoros'."

"I thought we agreed you would spare me your attempts at Spanish." Delgado shook his head grimly. "Your grammar pains me deeply, sir."

They looped around the rest of the museum for the sake of appearances, and also to check for anything else in the floor plans that could be of use to them, then headed out into the cloudy warmth of the late morning.

"And when might I expect Mr. Marton to invite me to borrow the clocks?" Delgado wondered as they paused on the colonnaded museum patio.

"I would guess—"

_"Señor Delgado!"_

They looked up from their conversation, then down the stairs to the man trotting toward them. He talked to Delgado for a bit, Napoleon catching enough to conclude that this was the invitation they'd been waiting for, then gestured back down, to an expensive-looking car with tinted windows.

Delgado made a sound of agreement, then clapped Napoleon on the shoulder with a companionable, "Vámanos, my friend."

The man shook his head vigorously. "El jefe prefiere que usted viene sólo, señor."

"Pero claro que Solo!" Delgado gestured between the other two men. "Señor García, may I introduce Señor Solo, my apprentice. Él viene conmigo."

"Pero—"

"Matcha gasto, senior Garza," Napoleon chimed in, offering a hand to shake.

"Un placer," García returned, not sounding, looking, or feeling the least bit pleased, delighted, or patient as he shook the offered hand.

Napoleon turned back to Delgado. "See how much worse I could be?"

Delgado donned a look of disappointment that would do any exasperated parent proud. "How much better than that do you think you are, sir?"

A loud sigh from García caught their attention and Marton's messenger made an exaggerated gesture toward the car. They headed down and got into the vehicle, which whisked them to a small house on the outskirts of town. Marton greeted them outside.

"Delgado, how delightful to see you enjoying life outside a prison cell!"

"Yes, it was quite challenging to enjoy it inside of one," Delgado returned, enthusiastically shaking the Frenchman's hand. "It is a joy to see you again, as well, and may I introduce you to my assistant, Mr. Napoleon Solo. He has been so blessed as to be learning my trade from the world's preeminent expert."

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Solo," Marton nodded to Napoleon, then turned back to Delgado. "As you might imagine, I have need of assistance from the world's preeminent expert. Please, come inside and we can chat." He smiled at Napoleon. "You are welcome to join us, Mr. Solo. It is always a delight to foster new talent."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Marton," Napoleon grinned back. "It's always a delight to meet a gentleman of your standing."

* * *

_U.N.C.L.E.-New York_

It was quiet lately. Had been for the past few weeks, since Solo, Dancer, and Slate had graduated to full agent status and accordingly been granted the privilege of using Channel D.

Now, the only trainee left at the New York office was Kuryakin. Quiet Kuryakin. The shy kid who assiduously met all his secretarial needs on his own without daring to bother the actual secretary. Hopefully the one or two new recruits who'd prospectively be arriving in the next month would be less helpful.

At least this left Gerry some time to pop around back to his old stomping grounds in Engineering, and sometimes Ramzy Alsaqri (the chief chemical engineer) would take the hint that _I'm bored out of my damn skull_ and let him help out with the things that didn't require fine motor skills.

_BEEP!_

Gerry looked to the red light blinking on the computer panel. The security light for Solo and Kuryakin's place. He tapped at the appropriate places on his headset to open Channel S. Waited a second for the clicking sound that signaled the receiver was accepting the call. When it didn't come, he tapped again and said anyway, in case Kuryakin's communicator was slightly broken, "Greetings, Mr. Kuryakin. Everything okay in the residence?"

No response, so Gerry grabbed the landline and punched in the apartment's phone number.

Again no response, so Gerry tried Kuryakin's cellphone.

Still no response, so Gerry switched over to the Security line. "Ogola here. Alarm went off at Solo and Kuryakin's apartment. Solo's on assignment and Kuryakin's not responding."

"_On it."_

* * *

April sighed to herself as she blindly felt around for the communicator currently acting the part of an alarm clock, assembled the darn thing, and hooked it to one ear with a bleary, "Dancer."

_"Yes, this is Innings with Security. We need you to do a welfare check with Kuryakin. Slate will meet you at Kuryakin's apartment. Possible intruder. Use caution."_

April sat bolt upright. "On my way."

* * *

"Straight up without calling up?" Slate asked. Dancer nodded, so they used their copy of the building entry key and took the stairs up, so it would be easier to monitor for the presence of possible intruders. Once at the door, they briefly had a hand-gesture-based discussion of whether or not to knock first, and Dancer mentally recording their time of entry as 0200 hours before rapping at the surface.

A few moments later, the sounds of unlocking came through, Slate and Dancer put their hands to their guns, and the door opened to reveal a slightly rumpled Kuryakin.

"In the event that it has escaped your notice, it is two in the morning."

"The alarm in your apartment went off at one forty-nine in the morning," Dancer supplied.

The slightly droopy blue eyes opened a bit wider.

"Can we come in?" Slate asked.

A moment of hesitation, then a nod and Illya opened the door wider, flicking on the lights as Mark and April entered.

Mark shut the door, latched the chain, and remarked, "Gol', Sparky, was you this pasty last time I saw you?"

Illya shrugged. "I suppose that depends on how glue-like you thought I was the last time you saw me."

April grunted in agreement at the assessment of pallor, but noted as she started peeking around into the kitchen and living room, "You're a little flushed."

Illya huffed and blew some hair out of his face. "Am I pale or flushed?"

"You look like you have a fever," April clarified. "Slate, check his vitals while I have a look around."

"Roger that," Mark agreed. "Come have a sit-down and we'll play doctor and patient, eh, matey?"

Kuryakin's gaze followed Dancer rather belatedly as she started checking the residence, then returned to Slate and looked slightly dizzy from his rapid head-turning as he asked, "Am I not permitted an opinion in this matter?"

"Not really, chum." He motioned with one hand and put a hand to the Russian's shoulder with the other. "Come on, then. Sit down before you fall down."

"I'm not—"

"Just play along, right? Anybody been over to visit you since Polo stepped out?"

"No," Illya said slowly, shrugging away from the guiding hand and heading to the couch a few steps ahead of Mark, "perhaps I… tripped an alarm?"

Slate harrumphed quietly, catching the thermometer that Dancer lobbed at him from the bathroom doorway. "How do you think you could have done that?" he wondered, taking the thermometer from its sheath, shaking it out, and adding, "You can answer that after you've heated up the mercury, yeah?"

Illya slouched back into the sofa cushions, thermometer under his tongue, arms crossed, eyes trailing after April as she made a quick initial sweep for people before beginning the longer sweep for non-U.N.C.L.E. monitoring devices and remotely controlled weapons.

"I'm not sure," Illya mumbled as Mark removed the stick. "I felt dizzy a bit earlier. Could I have bumped into something, perhaps?"

"You know your security system better than I do," Slate pointed out, "but I suppose so—yikes, that's a temp, ain't it?"

"Hm?"

"Approaching a hundred-two on the Fahrenheit, mate. We'll get your arse back in bed once Dancer's cleared it. Oy, April?"

"Yep?" April's voice joined them from the kitchen.

"We got a fever, mate—and we're usin' the 'we' as if we're a nurse or somethin'."

"Aw, blondie, I'm sorry for keeping you up. Auntie April will do your room next so you can get some rest."

Illya sort of sighed, but it came out being about fifty percent yawn.

"Anything unusual happen that you can recall?" Mark asked.

A headshake of denial.

"Haven't heard, seen, consumed anything out of the ordinary for you?"

Another.

"Why'd you not answer the phones or your communicator?"

Another, and he dropped his forehead into one hand. "I was not feeling well so I went to bed early to sleep it off, so I would be ready to depart for the training session in the morning."

"Don't know as I'd count on that, mate." Mark took out his communicator. "Open Channel S."

_"Channel S open. Hey ya, Starfish."_

"Hey, Ger, everything seems in order so far, far as the residence goes. Kuryakin's running a fever. He suggested he might've tripped something. Dancer's making sure nothing else is out of place."

_"Okay. You can clear out once you clear the residence, if Kuryakin doesn't need attention. You need Medical?"_

"Nah, not here, I don't think, but could you connect me to Med? I want Illya to have a little chat with 'em, right?"

_"Will do, Starfish,"_ Gerry signed off, and Mark smiled sympathetically as Illya shook his head vigorously, looking first disturbed and then dizzied by the time the Brit had handed over the communicator.

"Hello, Doctor. …A mild fever. …A bit dizzy. Headache. …No. …No. …Must I? I am scheduled to attend the training session. …But I was cleared last week, and I have done much more strenuous activity in a much worse condition."

Mark managed not to flinch back as Illya stared at him in lieu of the doctor he was speaking to over the communicator. "I defended my Master's thesis with the flu and won a national judo competition the next day. With all due respect, _Doctor_, I imagine I can muddle through Principles and Practices of U.N.C.L.E. given my present circumstances—pardon? …No, I will not have time to 'swing by' before leaving. …Very well. Kuryakin out."

Illya terminated the connection, handed the device back to its owner, and said tersely, "I have effectively been barred from the training session, pending a medical checkup in the morning."

Dancer came through then, declaring, "Kitchen's clear. I'll check out your room and you can get some shuteye."

"Yes, one must be adequately rested for medical appointments and convalescing."

April raised an eyebrow but carried on with her job as Mark sympathized, "Mate, didn't realize you were so psyched for the session."

"It is more psyching than seeking medical attention."

"You're a tough little bugger: chance you'll sleep it off. And if you don't, look on it as a stay-home holiday, yeah?"

"My eyes are dysfunctional enough without deluding them into untruths told by rose-colored glasses, Mark."

"So that's a no?"

The dysfunctional eyes pinned Slate with a glare that made him more grateful than he'd ever admit that April had just finished clearing the apartment.

"Make sure to answer your assorted modes of communication next time, okay?" Dancer urged.

A nod mercifully terminated the glare.

"I'll drop by in the morning to make sure you get to Med," she added and, in response to the reemerging glower, went on, "because we'd get our butts handed to us if you decide to jet off to the training session and, even if you do behave yourself, I'd feel bad if you got worse overnight and had to wander around with a high fever."

"I could call if necessary," Illya suggested.

April shrugged. "Should, could… would?"

Illya sighed.

"I didn't think so. I'll swing by around nine, okay?"

"No, but I accept it as the inevitable eventuality."

"Who could ask for anything more?"

* * *

Around five in the morning local time, Napoleon got out of bed and headed out to the hotel room veranda. To the right, the new part of the city, tall shiny buildings with the more antiquely regal Museo just across the street. To the left, the old part of town, where Delgado said he had a niece to whom they'd pay a visit later today.

Napoleon turned around again, resting back against the railing and confirming his good view through the window-paned doors of Delgado, thus far still dozing peacefully and betraying no inclination to bail on the assignment. The climbing gear and other necessities they'd picked up yesterday remained safely stowed between his own bed and the far wall.

He put his communicator to his ear and called for Channel S, as Illya was still being served by the trainee channel.

_"Bubby!"_ was the greeting.

"Gerry-pie, you haven't forgotten me, after all!"

_"Could never do, bop-a-doo. Might I presume you're lookin' to chat with your blond bombshell?"_

"You might indeed, my dear."

_"Will do, sugar, will do, but first…"_

"First?" Napoleon echoed at the hesitation.

_"Nothing to worry about much, but your lovebird's been grounded. He's got a fever and tripped off your own security system, so he's been dropped from the training session this time around. Just FYI. You dig?"_

"Yeah… yeah."

_"I'll patch you through, kiddo."_

A crackling noise later, a sleep-roughened, _"Kuryakin,"_ came through.

"Y'know, when I called you 'hot stuff', I didn't mean it as a challenge."

A pause. _"Napoleon?"_

"Of course, Napoleon!" The American bluffed an aggrieved tone, figuring the Russian would prefer sarcasm over sympathy. "Who else has been calling you 'hot stuff'?"

A sigh told him he'd figured right. _"Should you not be busy offending people with your Spanish or assassinating someone or… something?"_

"Yes, but I figured the best way to get my day off to a good start would be to get _yours_ off to a good start. You're welcome."

_"I take it you've been informed of my… misfortune."_

"How bad is it, chou? Don't lie to me."

_"It is not so bad. Bad enough to keep me at home, yes, but I'm hardly on my death bed."_

"But you have a temperature," he hinted.

_"Of course I have a temperature, Napoleon. Everything has a temperature. Interstellar space has a temperature."_

"I mean, an abnormal-for-a-human type temperature."

_"Yes."_

Napoleon bit back a huff of breath at the defensive tone and decided to move on for now. He could pester someone else for details later. "Gerry mentioned you set off our alarm. Have you been drinking much?"

_"Of course not. Dehydrating myself would hardly be conducive to a speedy recovery, Napoleon."_

"I don't mean alcohol, smart guy, I mean water. Have you been drinking water?"

_"Indeed, I have done so nearly my entire life. I pride myself on being quite expert in that regard."_

"I mean, have you been drinking enough of it lately?"

Illya released the puff of air Napoleon had withheld. _"I've had a good deal of experience with convalescence. I assure you I can manage a mild fever and nausea."_

"Nausea? You're nauseous, too?"

Pause. _"Only when I get dizzy."_

"Dizzy? Illya, when was the last time you had a drink—of water?"

_"It must have been within the last three days, given I am still clinging to life. Insert feeble cough."_

Napoleon clenched his fist around the railing, reminded himself that Illya could get prickly at the best of times and it was therefore entirely to be expected that he was getting outright snippy at the less-best of times, and said firmly, "Illya, I want you to get a drink right now. Then I want you to get the biggest bottle you can find in the kitchen, fill it up with water, and keep it with you at all times."

_"Napoleon—"_

"That's a request for now, horobchyk. Don't make me sic a nurse on you. I'll do it if I have to."

A sigh and some rustling sounds were followed up by a few loud swallows, then a quiet gasp and a heavy, _"There."_

"Thanks."

_"Welcome."_

Delgado was starting to stretch and sit up by this point, so Napoleon said, "I should probably get going on the gainful employment schtick now, but I'll call you again soon. Try not to die or anything in the meantime."

_"If you insist."_

"Love you."

_"I—Napoleon?"_

At the suddenly urgent tone, Napoleon stood up a little straighter. "Yes?"

_"I-I… nothing."_

He waited a moment before asking, "Are you sure?"

_"Yes,"_ was the rather uncertain-sounding response.

"Really?"

_"Yes. Good morning, Napoleon. You—please—I-I mean… please… don't die?"_

"I won't if you won't. Promise."

* * *

It was a nice little neighborhood. Small two-storied houses with stucco facades, each enclosed in its own courtyard, surrounded by concrete and black metal fences, guarding a single parking spot and a patch of grass landscaped to suit the owner. Close to bus stops and a park, it was the kind of place Napoleon could almost picture renting a place for a vacation with a by-then hopefully less-cranky Russian. Maybe making some happy Mexico-based memories would be good for him.

For now, though, Solo took Delgado's lead from the bus stop to one of the tidy little houses, nodding as Delgado held open the unlocked gate for him and walking up the parking pad, past the tiny garden, to the beige home with vibrant flower boxes in every window.

The emerald green door opened after a few quick raps and the eyes of the dark-haired young lady behind it went wide. "Rafa!" she exclaimed.

"Moniquita, mi muñequita!"

"Que? Pero… _que_?!"

"Mr. Solo, may I introduce you to my niece, Mónica del Valle."

Napoleon smiled at Mónica in her fitted burnout t-shirt and her red bra underneath and her equally red painted-on jeans—

"Señor Solo dice—" Delgado gave a wolf whistle.

Del Valle rolled her eyes. "Hay cosas que no requieren traducción, Rafa," she said as she opened the door wider and gestured for the pair to enter.

"I did not say that!" Solo protested as he followed Delgado inside, looking everywhere but at Mónica, who bore more than a passing resemblance to an enchanting señorita.

"You did not have to. Tell me, does your Uh Roommate—" He paused after the word to make air quotes with his fingers. "—know of your proclivities?"

Yes, Napoleon mused, he did, and he expected Solo to keep those proclivities under control. "Look, fella—"

"Oye, Tío," Mónica cut in, shutting the door loudly. "Una vez más: _que_?"

"I take it you didn't mention to your lovely niece about your grand escape," Napoleon commented with a wry grin.

"Escape?" del Valle echoed. She slapped Delgado's arm with the back of one hand. "_Your escape_?"

Delgado turned an aggrieved expression to Solo. "Now see what you did, butting in?"

Napoleon shrugged. "Not my fault I didn't know she speaks English." He jumped when Mónica gave his arm a milder version of what Delgado's had received.

"And who are you, Mr. Solo? You helped this bandit escape?"

"Bandit!" Delgado interjected. "I—"

"—am an artist," Mónica chorused with her uncle. "Yes, you keep telling yourself that," she said. "So. Why are you here and how are you here?" She frowned at Napoleon. "And the same questions for you, Mr. Solo. And also, who are you?"

"Napoleon Solo," the American introduced himself, producing his business card and presenting it to Delgado's niece, "with the U.N.C.L.E. We were in need of someone with your uncle's talents, and so he graciously agreed to assist us in exchange for our springing him from the pokey."

Mónica looked over the card front and back and returned it to Napoleon in short order. "Cute. Any idiot with paperboard and a printer could make this, but okay, Mr. Agent. Why do you come here?" She glared at her uncle. "I suppose you want the bag you left me with."

"You left your own flesh and blood holding the bag?" Solo tutted at Delgado. "Bad form, old boy."

Delgado ignored the peanut gallery to assert, "Yes, I want my bag," and then informed the peanut gallery: "It contains some of my specialized tools."

"They are your criminal things?" Mónica exclaimed. "You said it contained some things left to you by Abuelita!"

"It does, my dear," Delgado smiled, "but it does also contain more… practical artifacts." He gestured toward an interior door, presumably behind which he supposed the bag was being stored. "Please, mija."

Mónica sighed—"Ay, tío!"—and stomped off through the door he'd indicated. She returned shortly with a wheeled backpack that she dragged behind her. "Here are your stupid toys, Rafa. Now can you plot elsewhere? I am already an accomplice for having returned your things to you, so I would prefer not to further incriminate myself."

Solo smiled disarmingly. "I assure you, Miss del Valle, that we will be conducting U.N.C.L.E. business."

"And I assure you, Mr. Agent, that I'm not an idiot. Sadly, I cannot be certain that the same can be said for you." She pointed at Delgado. "You cannot trust him."

"I'd prefer not to, señorita, but he's my only option for the time being."

She nodded. "Okay, you are not an idiot. Only a fool for thinking he will not find an angle to get something for himself."

Solo fixed his smile on Delgado. "Gee, it's always helpful to have a relative vouch for your character, isn't it?"

Delgado reciprocated the grin and, once he'd taken the bag from Mónica, clapped Napoleon on the shoulder. "Ah, but we are kindred spirits, you and I! I have an incredible intuition about that sort of thing. Are you quite certain that you would not care to partake in a small side mission in the course of executing our primary assignment? Perhaps a trinket for a special someone whom you have betrayed no sign of having?"

"If you're asking whether I want to steal the jewelry you seemed so taken by at the museum," Napoleon returned, "the answer is still no."

"Come now, Mr. Solo, don't be a—a—ah, I know the word," Delgado mused, snapping his fingers a couples of times as he tried to recall it.

Napoleon waited a few seconds for the word to spring to the Mexican's mind but, when it did not seem immediately forthcoming, asserted, "Mr. Delgado—"

"Wait, wait, wait! I have it: fuddy-duddy. You, sir, are a fuddy-duddy."

"Mr. Delgado, I promise you that I am the least fuddy of all the duddies you could possibly have been stuck with for this assignment."

Mónica growled. "Oh, damn it, you idiots, leave!" She flung open the front door. "Get out!"

"But, mija," Delgado protested as she grabbed his elbow and started hauling him to the exit, "I have told Mr. Solo so much of the warm, welcoming character of Mexicans!"

"Warm, yes. Welcoming, yes. Stupid, no. You will be welcomed warmly when you go straight."

Delgado tutted. "What a terrible thing to say of Mr. Solo and his Uh Roommate, my dear!"

"You know what I mean, Rafa." She gave him a little shove to get him onto the walkway, then stood back and glowered at Napoleon. "Go do your job. Don't be taken in by this idiot."

"Scout's honor, ma'am," Napoleon pledged, giving Mónica a rather wide berth as he sidled past, to avoid being singed by the steam he would have sworn was spewing from her ears. He and Delgado both jumped when Mónica slammed the door shut as soon as Solo's fundament had crossed the threshold.

Napoleon smoothed down the hairs that had been blown askew by del Valle's farewell and decided, "Hate to break it to you, friend, but I'm withdrawing your nomination for Uncle of the Year."

"Ah, she loves me, really. But, like many members of the law-abiding citizenry, she frets over the more freewheeling elements of society."

"I wouldn't call that 'fretting', but whatever floats your boat."

Delgado shrugged. "Tomato, tomatillo, sir. Shall we float our collective boat elsewhere and get to plotting?"

"I reckon so."

* * *

Thanks for reading, :)


	3. Act III: An orchid, a barnacle,

**A/N, chapter warning**: Please note this chapter includes a description of someone discovering a suicide.

* * *

Act III: An orchid, a barnacle, a leopard, and a bowler

_Sixteen years ago_

_June_

_Acapulco_

How come it always had to happen when they were on vacation? At home, he could sleep through the night. At hotel, he ended up having to take a trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night, in the dark, in a place whose layout he hadn't had committed to memory since his pre-school days. Napoleon sighed deeply, stopping midbreath as he reminded himself that his sister was in the other bed and it wouldn't be nice to wake her up just because his bladder had travel anxiety.

He glanced to the other bed and found that his premature sigh termination had been in vain, as the covers were a mess and Carlota wasn't among them. Even better: he had to get up in the dark in a strange room in the middle of the night _after_ waiting for his sister to get out of the bathroom that linked their hotel room with their parents'.

Napoleon looked at the clock on the nightstand between their twin beds, and he kept looking as five past one became six, seven, eight, nine…

The boy scrambled out of bed. Whatever Carlota was doing in the bathroom, she'd have to finish real soon—preferably now—since he really wasn't sure how much longer he could hold it.

Since there wasn't anybody in the room to be bothered by it, he turned on the bedside light to help get him to his destination without stubbing one or more toes and padded over to the bathroom.

_Knock-knock-knock._

No reply, but light was coming from under the door, so he knew she was in there.

_Knock-knock-knock._

"Hey, Carlota," he whispered loudly. "Almost done in there?"

_Knock-knock-knock._

"I really hafta go, Lota."

_Knock-knock-knock._

"C'mon, Lota, I'm too old to wet the bed!"

_Knock-knock-knock._

"Lota!" He put his ear to the door, listening for any sort of a sound, which never came. "You okay, Lottie?"

Napoleon knocked a couple more times before checking the doorknob, finding it unlocked and pressing the door open.

It smelled funny. Not funny-bad, but funny for a bathroom. Not that the bathroom had smelled bad, but it was different now. Almost sweet, but not in a tasty way, which was also kind of funny since he really liked sweet things.

It looked funny. Neon green liquid all over the tiles. A bottle that was apparently its source.

Lota slouched against the wall across from the toilet, one of the tooth glasses set to her right, one of the hotel blankets wrapped around her shoulders, one of the books she'd brought on the trip in her lap.

"Lottie, are you okay?"

Napoleon stepped carefully, avoiding as much of the liquid as he could manage. He squatted down to shake her arm—"Hey, Lottie."—and fell back onto his rear end as she slumped off to the side.

Napoleon shifted onto his knees and scooched closer to his sister. "Lottie?"

Her eyelids twitched and eventually lifted just enough for slits of white to show through. Her mouth moved, but the mumble was too slurred for any words to be distinguishable.

He shook her elbow and leaned in. Maybe she was in a deep sleep, still waking up, having trouble waking up—"Lottie, wake up. Are you okay, Lottie? Lottie?"

Her eyes slipped shut again and more incoherent things tumbled out, her book sliding from her lap as she fell the rest of the way to lie on her side.

"Mom! Dad!"

* * *

_Present_

_New York_

Illya plopped himself onto the examination table, crossing his arms and legs to ensure his sentiments about medical attention were adequately reflected in his posture.

"So I have Dr. Patel's notes from when you talked with him overnight," Dr. Jimenez began. "I'm seeing fever, dizziness, nausea, perhaps some confusion—anything I should tack on?"

Probably yes, but Dr. Egret would be disappointed if he admitted as much. "No."

"Can you give me some idea of when this all started?"

Illya briefly considered starting with the day he was born, but the unfortunate reality was that sarcasm seldom sped along social interactions, and Dr. Egret wanted him to make this as short as possible. "Late yesterday morning, I believe."

"Let's get an update on your temperature, shall we?" She stood to retrieve the thermometer from by the exam table and placed it under Illya's tongue, eventually reporting, "One-oh-two on the nose. About the same as yesterday."

Illya nodded politely at this statement of the obvious.

"Have you eaten yet today?"

"I had an orange and some oatmeal."

"Kept it down?"

Illya figured that puking the meal onto the floor wasn't quite what she meant by 'down', but he also figured that Dr. Egret wouldn't want him drawing more concern than necessary, so he nodded. "Thus far I have successfully curtailed their reappearance."

"Still nauseous, then?"

"A bit. Not so much as yesterday afternoon."

"Dizzy?"

"Yes."

Jimenez hummed and went about checking his eyes, nose, throat, ears, blood pressure, and heartbeat. "Not bad, all things considered. Blood pressure is normal, which is a little higher than _your_ normal, but nothing to worry about." She sat down again on the wheeled stool. Thought a moment. "I don't like that temp, though. Came on fast?"

He was reasonably certain that Dr. Egret would prefer if he didn't up and die from some kind of hyperthermia, so he shrugged and admitted, "I felt a bit odd so I took my temperature before going to bed. It was normal then."

She shook her head and said again, "I don't like that temp."

And Dr. Egret wouldn't like if he was drawn away from his computer for several days, so he mustered up as much wittiness as he could manage, since a sense of humor seemed to make people think he didn't feel like his brain had somehow turned into a pufferfish that was expanding and expanding and expanding—"I, too, have little fondness for it, but will you let me leave if I promise to give it a good talking-to?"

The doctor chuckled. "I'll let you leave if you promise to go straight home, do nothing more strenuous than walk around your apartment, and call in right away if your temperature gets worse or doesn't start going down by tomorrow."

"You have my word."

* * *

_Punto Viejo_

Delgado tossed down the pen he'd been using to mark off key locations on the floorplan of the museum. "We have done enough for the day, have we not? I believe it is time now to think of dinner."

"I'd rather eat some dinner," Napoleon commented, putting down his own pen, "but you're welcome to just think of it."

"Perhaps a meal with the lady who found you so charming this morning."

Napoleon recalled the morning and the only two interactions with females that had occurred in that time frame. He guessed, "The bus driver?"

"My niece, Mr. Solo."

"Another one?" At Delgado's disappointed expression, he said, "Well, the one from whom we picked up your bag didn't seem especially charmed by me."

"I beg to differ, Mr. Solo. Besides, would you deny a man the pleasure of sharing a meal with his family?"

"If you play your cards right, Mr. Delgado, you'll be released to your own custody soon enough, and then you can go ham on the meal-sharing."

"But why not now? We all need to eat, sir. Why not allow the three of us to address that necessity together?"

Napoleon shrugged and moved from the small table to sit on his bed. He picked up the hotel phone on the nightstand between the pair of queen mattresses. "Okay, what's her number?"

Delgado rose and came to sit the edge of his own bed. "With all due respect, I would prefer to invite her myself."

"You will, once I'm sure you aren't trying to pull a fast one on me. Number." He poised his fingers over the keypad and, once Delgado had finished looking deeply wounded, entered the digits rattled off to him. Napoleon hit the speakerphone button, placed the receiver back in the cradle, and listened as del Valle answered the call. He motioned to Delgado to go ahead and make the invite.

Delgado went on in Spanish, making a more-or-less standard invitation until del Valle protested that the suggested destination was too expensive. "_Don't worry yourself, my dear_," Delgado assured her. "_Mr. Solo insists_." He glanced at Napoleon to check whether the American had picked up this part of the conversation and grinned when he observed the poorly-concealed grimace.

Napoleon made a skyward swirling motion with his finger—_wrap it up, pal_—and Delgado finished confirming the plans and ended the call.

"I take it we'll need a reservation," Napoleon remarked dryly.

"Only if we prefer not to look like peasants as we dejectedly tread back to the street. I leave that decision to you."

He sighed. Not in mourning over his wallet (after all, this would be going on his expense report), but over the piercing glares his poor self would undoubtedly be favored with (after all, this would be going on his expense report).

"Number," he said again and made the reservation for the time Delgado had specified to his niece, and only needed to insist a little bit to get it, thanks to the warmth Delgado had until-now erroneously claimed Mexicans felt toward foreigners putting in a sincere effort to speak the language. Once he hung up, he told Delgado, "Restrict your fluid intake."

"Beg pardon?"

"If I have to tail you to the little boys' room more than once, it's going to start looking real shady real fast, and we aren't supposed to be shady until after supper."

"I shall be the very definition of bladder control, sir."

* * *

_New York_

Home again, and not a minute too soon. He was sweating just from the walk from the office to the apartment, irritable from April's insistence on escorting him to the front door, and just generally feeling bad in many, many ways.

At least now he could sleep.

He made a quick stop in the kitchen to prepare the water bottle that Napoleon expected him to keep at the ready, then headed to the bedroom and stopped half a step into the room.

The bed didn't deserve the scowl that flew onto his face. The pillow would glare at him as he tried to get to sleep. The sheets would alternately comfort and mock him with the reminder that his usual bedmate was not present.

He'd just have to get over it, he reminded himself with a mental slap to the face, going to retrieve his pajamas from the nightstand drawer. Hesitating at the light blue material just visible within the half-opened thing. Shutting the drawer and grabbing Napoleon's spare pair from his dresser.

They were looser than his own set. Not that he slept in anything even remotely approaching a skinsuit, but the American had a few inches on him, both vertically and horizontally.

The satiny finish of his own set and the coolness that went with that material was markedly different from the soft, warm cotton of the sleeveless shirt and the linen of the trousers that he had to turn up at the cuffs more times than he'd have liked to admit.

Warm. Comfortable. It almost felt like an embrace from their rightful wearer, though a real embrace would be much nicer, although a real embrace would hinder his pre-sleep calisthenics. (He assumed Jimenez would approve, as keeping to his regular routine would be less strenuous than forcing himself to get straight into bed without carrying out the job.)

Jumping jacks. The soft up-and down of clothing felt like sighs on his skin.

Sit-ups. The folding-unfolding of cloth were almost fingers grazing over his middle.

Squats. The smoothing of linen around his thighs was an open-palmed hand—

"Nyet, nyet!" He took a quick intermission to remind himself in no uncertain terms that this was not a good line of thinking and he should stop before he forced himself into needing a cold shower, since that wasn't part of his pre-sleep ritual, and that would mean he'd have to do the calisthenics all over again, and he wasn't sure he'd be up to repeating such a non-strenuous activity.

Well, cold shower now, or he could wait until his was in bed and try that other thing that Napoleon had both embarrassedly and embarrassingly explained to him—

"_Stop, stop, stop,"_ he growled at himself in Ukrainian, then finished his calisthenics and climbed into bed.

After a second of thought, he reached over to the alarm clock radio on the nightstand and turned it on, to one of those stations Napoleon liked. Perhaps Bing and Ella and Louis and Patsy would help lull him into sleep faster than he'd managed last night.

_Bzzzz… bzzzz… bzzzz…_

Of course someone was calling him. He grabbed for his communicator.

_Bzzzz… bzzzz…_

Okay, not the communicator. He tossed the communicator onto the nightstand and reached for his cellphone.

_Bzzzz…_

It was from 'E'.

Dr. Egret.

He sighed and briefly considered not answering, but getting rest hardly seemed an adequate justification for disappointing her.

"Hello."

_"How did the appointment go?"_

"Well enough that I was allowed to return home. Poorly enough that I am not expected into work for several days, except in the form of a return to Medical should the fever worsen."

_"Excellent. You can do some work for me, then. Well, not work, really. I think you'll have fun, Illya."_

"You are entitled to an opinion."

_"What do you know about air traffic control, Illya?"_

Illya repressed a sigh. He was hardly in the mood for a guessing game. "What would you like for me to know about air traffic control, Doctor?"

_"Is there some brilliant way you can access it from the comfort of your own home?"_

Several, of course, to varying degrees of brilliance. Before he shared any of this with her, though, he still wanted to know, "To what end?"

_"Nothing devious, just to detour a few flights—they can even be of your choosing. Would that be possible?"_

"The choosing or the detouring?"

_"Both."_

"Yes."

_"And do you have any ideas on how to make it happen?"_

"Yes."

_"Then pick three flights, tell me their flight numbers, and redirect them wherever you like."_

Illya hesitated. "You will not harm anyone in this exercise?"

_"Nobody gets hurt unless you do something unnecessarily untoward to accomplish your task. No, Illya, I'm not going to harm anyone. We're still getting acquainted. You don't know me well enough to willingly do anything too damaging to your moral compass."_

Illya processed this for a moment, almost getting stuck on the concept of his having a moral compass before settling on the more concerning matter of her having authority over him. "Am I being mind-controlled?"

_"If I were controlling your mind, would you be questioning my orders?"_

"If you weren't controlling my mind or applying other means of duress, would I have lied to Slate, Dancer, Solo, and more than one U.N.C.L.E. doctor?"

Egret sighed. _"Let's call it… mind-opened."_

Illya drew the phone away from his ear to look at it, then returned it and wasn't nearly as sarcastic as he wished he were as he asked, "Did you lobotomize me when I wasn't paying attention?"

Egret laughed. _"No, Illya, I wouldn't do that to you."_

He frowned at her amusement. How was he supposed to know what she would and wouldn't do to him? "A relief, indeed. I shall contact you should I have questions."

* * *

_Punto Viejo_

He needed to find an angle.

He, the King of Diamonds, had been granted practically free access to a museum (all he had to do was make it 'look' like he was breaking in), and he still didn't have a way of making it work out for him.

Meanwhile, Solo chatted up Mónica, flirting just enough that Delgado could tease the American about his 'roommate' but not enough that his expression of shock was sincere.

In fact, he intended to keep all of his jabs light and brief, since this leisurely dining experience was the perfect opportunity for him to contemplate how to work the situation to his advantage. While the U.N.C.L.E. agent was distracted by his niece, he mused and thought and contemplated and occasionally used his phone under the table to aid in those processes.

Between the entrée and the dessert, he settled on his preferred target as well as a couple of alternatives. It was a shame that he'd had to miss out on so much quality time with his niece, but he made the most of the dessert and promised as they parted that he would see her again soon.

* * *

_New York_

Illya had nothing against Sweden. In fact, he found it more admirable than many other internationally recognized states, despite it being the most depressed of the Scandinavian countries when viewed from a map.

Iceland had the pride of being its own island.

Denmark merrily dotted the Baltic and North Seas with its archipelago.

Norway resolutely held together the sharers of its borders and still found time to nod a polite acknowledgement to Britain in the west.

Sweden… well, the poor thing was perpetually at risk of nosediving into the Baltic, its self-destructive droop barely mitigated by the efforts of its neighbors.

Still, he could hardly fault Sweden for every historical and geographical mishap, and now he was going to add to its misfortune by messing with its air traffic.

And he'd probably enjoy doing so. Shouldn't, both on the 'doing' and the 'enjoying' front, but he had already outlined his plan of action and was on to browsing for potential victims to be detoured.

Illya bookmarked a couple of webpages and grabbed his phone.

_Me: Are you available for a few questions?_

The responding text came almost instantaneously. _E: Of course, Illya. What do you need to know?_

He took a moment to suppress the bile that automatically rose at her solicitous reply, before responding in kind. _Me: When do you want your flights to be redirected?_

_E: OUR flights, Illya. As soon as possible._

_Me: I appreciate your efforts to cement my being part of the team._

The sarcasm probably didn't drip through as caustically as he'd have liked, but effectuating that wish would have required a phone call rather than a text conversation, and that was just not going to happen when he had any control over the matter.

_E: Other questions?_

_ Me: Why are you so fixated on me that you have clung to my proverbial coattails like a demonic barnacle since Oxford?_

The reply was less than instantaneous this time. _E: __Do you really have to ask that?_

_Me: It is not vital to my continued existence but I would like to know._

_ E: I meant… do you really not know?_

_ Me: Given the number of willing minions of extensive capabilities that you already have at your disposal, I do not understand why you have expended the efforts you have to drag me down with them._

_E: You underestimate yourself, Illya. But now that you are with me, and now that I know what you need, I will make sure you grow to understand your value._

Illya frowned at the screen. Considered making that the end of their text string for the time being.

Then he reconsidered. While he somehow didn't seem able to expose Egret's presence to the appropriate authorities just now, he was hopeful that this situation wouldn't be permanent. Perhaps it would be wise to keep her talking, as it were.

_Me: What do I need?_

_E: You need to understand our cause. And you need to be taken care of._

_Me: I thought you were not planning to kill me for the foreseeable future._

_E: Not like that, Illya—never like that!_

_E: …well, never say never, but as I told you before, you're too useful to be killed._

_E: You weren't happy when I knew you in England. My staff has observed that you seem happier now. Now, that you've been looked after by Solo, etc._

_E: You need to be cared for, Illya._

No number of exclamation points or capital letters could ever hope to adequately express the spike of anger that struck him, so he did not try. _Me: I do not need to be looked after. I do not need to be cared for._

_E: Did that upset you? It's nothing to be upset over… people like you need to be cultivated._

Another spike. Another long, searing stare at the screen.

People like you?

Cultivated?

_Me: Are you likening me to a particularly fussy houseplant?_

_E: You're special, Illya. I realize that now._ _You need to be supported._

_Me: If I could find an orchid to your taste, would you leave me alone?_

_E: You have a wonderful sense of humor, Illya. Don't wear it out._

Then, the true horror.

_E: :)_

Illya eyed the tiny image of a smiley face for far longer than he was quite certain was good for his health. Long enough that it seemed to expand and glow and multiply. Long enough that the possibility of ever being able to look away again—

_Me: I will relay the flight numbers to you by midnight._

He stuffed the phone under the covers, wished he could wash his eyes out with lye without doing permanent damage, and decided it was a good thing that there were no strong corrosives in the residence to tempt him.

* * *

_Punto Viejo_

Refreshed from their dinner out, and freshly suspicious of Delgado's cellphone-using throughout the meal, Napoleon dove straight back into preparations as soon as they returned to the hotel.

"Fresh and clean from U.N.C.L.E. wardrobing," he announced, producing a pair of full-face masks for the job.

Delgado regarded the balaclavas disdainfully. "Now you are actively trying to insult me. You expect the King of Diamonds to pull off a heist looking like a rank-and-file robber, sir?"

Solo glanced down to the masks. "I know it's not up to par with your usual attire, but I thought between the stint in prison and the cross-global travel, you might not have had time to—"

"I assure you that I always have time to escape the embarrassment of sporting a mutilated beanie, Mr. Solo." Delgado turned to retrieve two stacks of clothes from the dresser drawer he had claimed for the duration of their stay. He handed one of them to Solo.

Napoleon tossed the disgraced beanies onto his bed and took the selection from Delgado. He flicked through the black trousers (his own), black button-down (not his own), black bandana (also not his own), and black hat (extraordinarily and most emphatically not his own). Took a glance at the fedora that topped the Mexican's stack. Held up the bowler hat atop his own. "A henchman hat? Really?"

"Don't fret, Mr. Solo. You are adequately hench for our purposes." He set to demonstrating the top two articles, tying his bandana around the lower half of his face and donning the fedora, set forward a bit.

"Will that stay on while we're making like cliff-divers in a small way?"

"I never lose my hat. You can think of me as the Indiana Jones of jewel theft." Delgado pondered a moment. "So… Indiana Jones."

"Sinaloa Jones," Napoleon suggested, recalling Delgado's home state from the file on the man.

"Which would make you—"

"If you say 'Bajo Redondo', this bowler hat will be put to a much better use than sitting on my head, buddy." Delgado chuckled, and Solo went on, "How'd you even manage to cobble these get-ups together? My understanding was that you were pretty much shipped directly from Australian prison to here, under police escort."

"Ah, but I did have access to airport shops." He tipped his fedora. "Duty-free, my friend."

* * *

_New York_

Illya's glasses caught on his forehead, making way for his eyes to be rubbed by the fingers of his right hand.

_'Crazy…'_

The heel of one palm found a resting place over one eye as the other shifted to glance at the bedside radio. Was it mocking him?

'_I'm crazy for feeling so lonely…'_

Yes, it was definitely mocking him.

_'I'm crazy… crazy for feeling so blue…'_

No, dammit, he wasn't feeling blue. Egret's task was distracting him from the blues and Patsy seemed determined to shove him back into them, and one of them had to go so he turned off the radio and resumed planning a very bad day for roughly three hundred predominantly Swedish travelers.

* * *

_Punto Viejo_

_"Kuryakin."_

"Solo." Napoleon leaned back against the veranda railing, already smiling from Illya's curt greeting. "How are you doing, horobchyk?"

_"Oh. Napoleon."_

"Yes. Napoleon." He smiled a little less at the obvious lack of anything even vaguely reminiscent of enthusiasm. Not that Kuryakin ever sounded especially warm and friendly, but a delivery as flat as this did not bode well for the fellow's health status. "How's the fever?"

_"Quite well, thank you."_

"Still have one, then?"

_"One-oh-one."_

"You've been drinking plenty of water?"

_"Yes."_

"Taking your medication?"

_"Yes."_

"Resting enough?"

_"Yes."_

"What did you do today?"

_"Answer a lot of questions."_

He bit back a sigh at the tart response: the words weren't out of character, but the tone was a bit snider than usual. Given the Russian was sick and missing work and just generally thrown out of his routine, Napoleon decided not to take the snippiness personally. "I'm open to chatting about whatever you want, chou."

_"I don't want to talk."_

"Any particular reason?"

_"We talked just this morning. It has not been even a day since last we spoke. Can't you give me a chance to miss you?"_

Napoleon's hand tensed on the railing. Now _that_ he couldn't help but take a little personally. Was he being too clingy? Wasn't a good boyfriend supposed to check in on his ill significant other?

_"I… that was not very kind of me. Napoleon, I do... miss you. It… I am not feeling well and I miss you and—oh, Napoleon, this is not going very well at all."_

He let out a breath at the semi-apology. "It's okay, Illya."

_"Not really, no. Did—I—no."_

Caught his breath again. "Illya, what's wrong?"

_"Did… you always say it like that?"_

"Say what like what, horobchyk?"

_"Nothing, Napoleon."_

"Illya, chou, you're starting to scare me."

_"It is inappropriate for me to distract you from your work in this way. I am fine, Napoleon. We will talk again soon and I will try to be better company."_

"If it's not soon enough, you'll take care of yourself, right? Drink enough and sleep enough and call someone if you need to, right?"

_"Yes, Napoleon, I promise."_

"I'll hold you to that. I love you."

_"Yes. Good night."_

* * *

_New York_

'_Worry… why do I let myself worry? Wonderin' what in the world did I do?'_

Illya propped his chin up on one hand, propped the connected elbow on one cross-legged knee, and wondered what in the world had possessed him to seek out Patsy Cline's lament on his laptop after having so wisely cut her off on the radio earlier.

Perhaps it was that he missed Napoleon. Perhaps that, despite his declarations of trust, he was still anxious about the man meeting someone he liked better.

Or perhaps it was that he had done all he could in terms of preparation and had only to disclose the flight numbers to Dr. Egret before he actually did something that would actually have an effect in the real world.

Well, not really. Nothing would really be put awry for another five hours, when the first plane was due to be directed away from Örnsköldsvik Airport, but telling Egret about that somehow seemed like the official starting point for the event.

'_I'm crazy for cryin', and crazy for tryin', and I'm crazy for lovin' you…'_

Illya clicked out of the audio file and just stared at the top of the screen, at the sliding bit of plastic he used to cover the embedded camera. Eventually he slid it open, opened a recording program, and turned on the camera.

He didn't hit the record button, just stared at the lens for a moment before looking down to the backwards image of himself in the program window. They were right: he did look pale and flushed. His hair was a mess, not helped by the glasses haphazardly pushing his fringe back. His eyes were red; not from crying, but from rubbing at his sleep-deprived eyeballs.

He glanced up at the lens again, briefly, then attempted a smile, and good god, did his smile always make it look like he was suffering from indigestion while sticking his fingers into an electrical socket? He'd seen robots manage more convincing expressions of happiness although, to be fair, he wasn't smiling because he was happy. He wasn't even sure why he was smiling.

Perhaps it was a pathetic means of wasting time before sending Egret the numbers. Perhaps it was because he wanted to believe all the nice things Napoleon said about him.

About his brilliant smile. Indigestion.

About his silky hair. Mildewed straw.

About his hypnotic gaze. Hollow and dead.

About his lovely lips. Chapped and cracking. He should probably drink more of that water.

Illya exited the program, shut off the camera, slid the plastic shut, and texted the three targeted flight numbers along with half a dozen backups.

* * *

_Punto Viejo_

Solo stabbed the spike into the ground, stomped on it a couple of times to make sure it was really in there, then leaned over to press the button that prompted several smaller spikes to jut out perpendicular to the original. Delgado started walking the rope over to the window, tracing from the spike in the dirt to their point of entry, and Solo followed. Each took one side of the exterior frame, conveniently stair-like enough to make a welcoming climb, but narrow enough to warrant some caution as they stuck close to the outer wall of the museum.

Once at the top, Delgado held onto the top of the window frame and sidestepped much more warily across the much more narrow wooden beams separating panels of stained glass. He stuck one side of the two-sided suction cup to the bottom of one panel, then carefully lifted until that part of the window was all the way open and held in that position by the other side of the suction cup.

At Delgado's quick hand gesture, Solo joined him at the center of the window and draped a protective cloth over the ledge before clamping a U-shaped metal trough to the beam, intended to protect both the rope and the window from damage. Delgado positioned the rope through the trough, then dropped the rest of the loop down to the interior floor.

Delgado nodded toward the floor. _After you._

Solo nodded toward the floor. _As if I'm letting you out of my sight in the vicinity of jewel collections more than absolutely necessary._

Delgado's eyes shifted skyward briefly, then he went ahead with his descent, using the rope and the wooden parts of the window to walk himself down. Solo followed suit, thinking it was an appropriate turn of phrase given their rather formal attire.

On ground again, Delgado stayed close to their landing place while Solo circled around the perimeter of the room, using a thin telescoping rod to reach up and place still photos over the lenses of the security cameras. He'd taken the photos during the day, whenever there were no people in each camera's view, and re-shaded them to make them more closely resemble the lighting during the museum's off hours.

Solo gave the thumbs-up for this room and, as soon as Delgado came to disarm the security pad by the doorway, moved into the next room to do his trick with the cameras again, afterward standing by the clock display. Taking his cue, Delgado joined him, disarmed the next room's security pad, and set to work on the bolts fastening the glass dome to the wooden base, removing one metal rod at a time.

All bolts set on the ground, Solo and Delgado gingerly lifted the glass over the clocks and placed it down by the display. Solo removed the hard-shelled backpack from his shoulders and unzipped it to allow Delgado to transfer the five clocks into the case.

Targets acquired, they left the way they came in. The still photos remained on the camera lenses in anticipation of their impending return, but they took the rope, clamp, and cloth with them to make their overconfidence less obvious in the event that Marton had one of his goons monitoring the operation.

* * *

_New York_

Done.

Well, not yet, but it would be as soon as the flights got close enough to Örnsköldsvik. Or Bremen, Germany, in the event that they started catching on in Sweden and somehow managed to make corrections before he was finished with them. Then anywhere from one hundred and five to three hundred and forty-three mostly-Germans would be ticked off instead of anywhere from fifty to three hundred and two mostly-Swedes.

He looked to the clock in the corner of the screen. Time for the orange medicine again. Egret had told him to take one of them every day at noon, and another every night at midnight. She either didn't know that he was used to turning in well before midnight, or she was using this as a subtle way of reinforcing her control over him.

It was equally annoying regardless of the motivation, but he took the bottle of pills and the bottle of water from the nightstand and popped one of the orange things. Wasn't sure why he felt so compelled to take it, but it was probably a result of taking the orange. He figured it was something like attempting to slake one's thirst with saltwater.

He blinked. Was that an appropriate metaphor? It wasn't like he wanted more and more of the orange. Needed it more and more. Would that come later? Would he build up a dependency, or would it ratchet his fever into hyperthermia and kill him first?

Thinking of fevers now, Illya put a hand to his forehead and wondered if he should check his temperature again.

No, he had a temperature.

Everything had a temperature.

Why did that sound familiar?

Illya looked at the bottle of orange in his lap. The bottle of water in his hand. Had he taken the orange yet? Yes—no? Yes. He put the bottles back on the nightstand, retrieved a notebook from his backpack, noted down that he had taken the midnight dose.

Squinted at the radio on the other nightstand. Hadn't he turned it on? Why wasn't it making any noise? He went to turn it back on, remembered that he'd turned it off before, and turned it off again. Then it seemed too quiet so he turned it on and why was he in Napoleon's pajamas?

* * *

_Punto Viejo_

"This is the stuff we're giving to Marton," Solo said, plunking the small bag on the table in the hotel room. "You can take some of them to replace the stuff in the clocks. And this is where you will put the aztenite," he concluded, placing a small box beside the bag.

Delgado reached into the crushed-velvet bag and started examining the pieces of malachite. "Are you dictating which piece to put in which clock, or are you leaving this to my professional judgement?"

"Your judgement, sir." Napoleon dragged his chair a little closer, folding his arms and watching closely as Delgado set to work. They maintained a quiet that Solo was perfectly fine with for several minutes before Delgado started chatting.

"Tell me, Mr. Solo, how did you meet your Uh Roommate?" At the half-hearted glare this garnered, Delgado raised his hands briefly before returning them to their task. "Your words, sir, not mine."

"Alright, fine, I have a boyfriend who doesn't like when I go around all willy-nilly telling people he's my boyfriend. Now _those_ are my words." Napoleon turned his gaze back to the job at hand. "We met in college."

"There is no need for you to sound so—ah, what is the word?" He clucked his tongue and moved on when the word failed to leap to mind. "It is only that I know so little about you, so asking about your 'boyfriend who doesn't, etcetera, etcetera', is one of the few conversational inroads I have."

After a few more minutes of quiet productivity, Delgado commented, "He likes the tall, dark, and handsome type, I see."

Napoleon side-eyed the jewel thief.

"Well, if something unfortunate should happen to you, I wanted to let you know that I would be happy to provide consolation to his tastes."

Napoleon froze for a second, decided that this little gem was better ignored, and proceeded to ignore it.

Delgado clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Not even that, eh? How sexually explicit do my insinuations have to be to get you out of this funk of yours? What if I start describing in great detail all the possible manners of sod—"

Napoleon snatched the needle-nose pliers out of Delgado's hand and held them up to the tip of Delgado's less needle-like nose. "If a freewheeling element like you starts that kind of talk about a swear-to-god angel, I swear to god we're going to have a problem."

"Aha, there you are! Not your normal, delightful self, but at least you sound alive again." Delgado plucked the pliers from Solo's fingers and reapplied them to his tinkering. "Rest assured, Mr. Solo, I don't admire men as you do. Your angel is safe."

Napoleon finally managed a chuckle. "But if he heard me call him an angel, _I_ wouldn't be."

"Ah, so that's why you are so—ah, that word…." At Napoleon's silence, Delgado glanced at him. At Napoleon's puzzled look, he handed over the first sample of aztenite and started fitting the replacement. "Whatever the word is, you are it and you are also homesick."

Napoleon dropped the azenite into the box. He followed up its soft plink with a dry: "I haven't been homesick since I was a five-year-old at a summer day-camp, Mr. Delgado."

"And yet you call your boyfriend every day whilst on assignment and have become so—ay, that word…." Delgado whistled briefly, ending rather shrilly as he beamed, "Ah, yes! Snippy."

"Snippy!"

"Yes. You, sir, are homesick and snippy."

"I—" Napoleon caught himself. Snapping about how he was neither homesick nor snippy would not be a good look. He exhaled quietly and supplied calmly, "I didn't mean to be snippy with you, Mr. Delgado. I… miss him. I apologize for taking it out on you."

"See? Homesick."

"I wouldn't say that."

"You miss your boyfriend—" A grunt of annoyance as the pliers briefly caught on something. "—with whom you live. Is missing him not the same as being homesick?"

Well, this sounded like it could get deeper than Napoleon cared to get right now, so he acknowledged this point, quickly following it up with, "And what of you, Mr. Delgado? Do you have anyone who gets you all homesick?"

Delgado chuckled. "My goodness, no, Mr. Solo. My home is wherever I am. I make no attachments."

"What about your lovely niece?"

"She is always in my heart. My family is always with me—" A grunt of triumph as he extracted the next fragment of aztenite. "—just as yours remains with you."

"I know," Napoleon agreed, taking the second genuine sample and handing over the fake in exchange. And that used to be enough for him, too.

Until Illya.

He loved his parents, of course, and Aunt Amy. He missed them and all, but somehow there wasn't this… homesickness for them. This deep longing that gnawed its way into his thoughts at every turn. He managed to keep it at bay whenever he needed to really concentrate, but it was never far off.

And it didn't help that he had to be away from the man here, in Mexico, where Lota—

"Why the sapphire necklace?" Napoleon asked abruptly.

Delgado paused in his work, briefly enough that the hesitation was almost imperceptible. "The cut was the most unique. Something so distinct will bring a greater profit."

"Would have," Solo corrected. He drew the sapphire-inlaid adornment from his breast pocket and Delgado's eyes briefly flicked in its direction. "Didn't we talk about this?"

"Why, yes, Mr. Solo, as a matter of fact we did."

"Didn't we agree that _this_ would end in a cell Down Under?"

"Come, sir, you cannot expect a leopard to change his spots overnight. Surely you can appreciate that this leopard restrained himself to only one…." He trailed off as his peripheral vision caught Solo drawing a broach from his left trouser pocket. "Only two…." A ring from the right pocket. "Only…." A clattering as a few more pieces were placed onto the table. "Nobody is perfect, sir."

"You know we're bringing these back," Napoleon said, using hotel towels to wrap the jewelry for the return trip.

"But of course." At the ensuing silence, Delgado asked, "Aren't you going to remind me of my also being 'brought back'?"

"I have to think about it."

"Do you?" Delgado glanced at Solo, caught the American's resigned glare, and grinned as he finished with the second clock.

"You know I can't say you're definitely going back to prison. If I did, what would be your motivation for helping with the rest of the assignment?"

"Then you would be open to a bit of negotiation."

"Not about these being put back where they belong," Solo said with a gesture to the jewels, "but about your going back to Australia, yes."

"I am open to offers, Mr. Solo."

"If this—" Napoleon gestured expansively to the unauthorized pickings. "—is not repeated, I'm willing to write it off as a bit of entertainment for yourself, and that you had every intention of returning every item."

"I will not make another mistake, sir," Delgado pledged, and that was not especially reassuring but Solo didn't have much choice at the moment.

* * *

_New York_

Illya confused, irritated, and generally inconvenienced forty-six passengers and four crew, most of whom were Swedish.

* * *

_Punto Viejo_

In the wee morning hours, Solo and Delgado took another ride with García to visit Victor Marton, malachite samples tucked away in the drawstring knapsack the U.N.C.L.E. agent brought along. Marton accepted the samples, comparing them against the photos he had of the aztenite in the clocks, and smiled.

"Effective and efficient as always, Señor Delgado," Marton said, offering a hand that Delgado shook. "And you, Mr. Solo," he added, shaking Napoleon's hand as well, "I'm sure this has been a most valuable experience for you."

"It certainly has, sir," Napoleon grinned. "I'm learning a lot."

"Mr. Solo has been of great use to me," Delgado put in. "If all is to your satisfaction, monsieur…?"

"Ah, yes." Marton produced an envelope from his desk drawer and handed it over to Delgado. "As agreed, a new offshore account in your name, with an initial deposit of—well," he demurred, modestly gesturing to the documents he'd just handed over.

"Even more generous than agreed," Delgado beamed, taking a look at the papers within. "But I should know by now to expect no less generosity from you, sir. If I can be of service again to you, please never hesitate to reach out to me."

After another round of mutual admiration, García dutifully dropped them both back at the hotel and, once they were back in their room, Delgado heroically dropped the envelope into Solo's hands.

"It will be put to noble uses, no doubt," Delgado commented.

"'Fraid so," Napoleon returned solemnly.

"May I now take custody of myself?"

"Agents from the local office are watching the building, and they'll be joined by some Mexican authorities shortly. Once everyone's here, they'll give you your walking papers, so to speak. I have to get this back to HQ—" Napoleon held up the knapsack that now contained only the genuine aztenite and a few bits of stuffing. "—so I'll say goodbye now."

"Mr. Solo," Delgado said, shaking one of Napoleon's hands warmly with both of his own, "it was truly a pleasure to work with you."

"And you as well, Mr. Delgado. I hope I hear nothing but good things about you in the future."

"I will do my utmost to be the best." As Napoleon started to gather his things, the Mexican added, "Ah, and say hello to your home for me. I'm sure he has missed you."

Solo grinned, saluted, and set off.

Delgado grinned, waved, and hoped the young agent wouldn't get in too much trouble when the museum staff started taking a close look at their displays.

* * *

_New York_

Illya determined that it really wasn't fair to exclusively target Sweden, so he gave one hundred and five mostly-Germans a headache.

* * *

_Ciudad Obregón International Airport, Mexico_

Napoleon checked in for the first leg of his return trip to New York, a layover in Mexico City.

* * *

_New York_

Illya decided that Europe shouldn't have all the misfortune and texted Dr. Egret the number of a flight intended for Miami International Airport.

* * *

_Benito Juárez International Airport, Mexico_

Napoleon checked in for the second leg of his trip to New York, a layover in Miami.

* * *

_New York_

_'I've never met you, yet never doubt, dear… I can't forget you; I've thought you out, dear…'_

The crooning accompanied the sound of the alarm he'd set on his phone, for a few minutes before he had to get back to work, or not-work, as Egret had suggested, and when had he turned the radio back on?

_'I know your profile and I know the way you kiss… just the things I miss, on a night like—'_

"Do shut up," Illya all but growled at Mel Tormé, almost punching the radio in his enthusiasm to switch it off again. He let his head drop into his hands, felt the lack of fabric at his arms, and peered up.

Oh, right. He'd put on Napoleon's pajamas. Because he was a pitiful textbook case of codependency. And why had he turned off the radio when it was his only company?

He turned it back on.

_'Isn't it romantic? Music in the night, a dream that can be—'_

Oh, right. He turned it off again so Mel would stop rubbing it in his face, then set about to inconveniencing a hundred and eighty beachbound travelers.

* * *

_American airspace_

_"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Perez. I apologize for the interruption and the inconvenience, but I have been informed that we will not be able to land at Miami as planned."_

The corners of Napoleon's mouth pulled down, and other passengers started to murmur.

_"We will be landing instead at Orlando International Airport, and airline staff will be waiting to help accommodate your travel needs from there. We apologize sincerely for this happening, and we will be landing in Orlando in approximately thirty minutes. Thank you for your patience."_

As the captain repeated the message in Spanish, Napoleon rose from his seat and walked toward the front of the plane until he reached the nearest flight attendant. "Excuse me—" He flicked a glance at her nametag. "—Tricia. I was wondering if there was any way I could find out why we are being redirected."

Tricia offered, "All I know is, Miami told us we weren't able to land with them."

"Might the pilot have more information?" Noting her reasonably concerned eyebrow-raise, he produced his card and, once she'd nodded at it, added, "You might imagine why I'd like to know these things."

"Wait here a minute, Mr. Solo."

"Napoleon, please," he said, flashing a smile.

"Of course, Napoleon. Just let me check in with the cockpit." Tricia left him for a few moments, talked on the phone to the cockpit, and motioned him over. "Here's Mr. Solo," she said into the phone, then handed it over to the man from U.N.C.L.E.

"Captain Perez?"

_"Yes, Mr. Solo, hello. You wanted more information on our detour?"_

"Whatever you could tell me would be much appreciated, Captain."

_"Yes, yes… our radar and navigation started getting a little wonky as we were starting our approach to Miami. Naturally, that is of concern, so we asked Miami to advise us. They suggested briefly going farther out again, and the nav seemed okay again. Then we went back in and the nav went out again."_

"I see," Napoleon murmured.

"_We would rather not spend an indeterminate amount time circling Miami while we figured out the problem, and if there was other problems that we hadn't noticed along with it… so Miami suggested Orlando was about at the radius where we started experiencing problems. Orlando said they would accommodate us, so here we are."_

"So it's strange, but you can't really identify why?"

"_That about sums it up, Mr. Solo. We'll work out the why once we've got you folks safely on ground again, okay?"_

"Sounds good, Captain. Thanks for the chat."

"_Pleasure, sir."_

The captain hung up, and Napoleon stayed by the phone as he put his communicator over his ear. "Open Channel D."

* * *

_New York_

Illya sighed as a ring came through his headphones again. Of course, this one Miami flight—this one flight detour that required him to vocalize—was the fussiest. How American.

He tapped back on the distortion application before offering with a slight drawl, "Tower."

_"Hi, Miami, this is Napoleon Solo with the U.N.C.L.E. I'm calling to ask about a flight that's been redirected from you to Orlando."_ Solo rattled off a number.

A chill ran down Illya's spine, which was quite a refreshing change from the fever, and he returned after a reasonable pause, "Go ahead."

_"Can you let me know any cause for this?"_

Boy, could he ever, but Illya plowed on with his serviceable Southern accent. "Your navigation gets kinda funky when it approaches us, right?"

_"Right."_

"It de-funks when it don't approach, right?"

_"Right."_

"So far, no other flights are getting in a funk, so it seems a fluke with your systems interacting with the airspace in this area. To reduce the risk of collision, we'd rather you land where y'all don't have these problems."

_"Right."_

"That about do it for you, Mr. Solo?"

_"Yes, that about does it for me, Mr.…?"_

"Tormé."

_"Mr. Tormé. No relation, I suppose?"_

"Relation to what, Mr. Solo?"

_"Never mind. Thank you."_

The connection terminated and Illya shut off his microphone before releasing a long breath.

Napoleon. He was hurting Napoleon with this harmless task for Dr. Egret. Well, 'hurting' was a bit strong. This time.

This time.

What about next time?

Illya shook his head. There couldn't be a next time. He couldn't risk a next time. He wouldn't allow a next time. He almost flipped his laptop as his legs jolted, feeling the vibration of his communicator before he heard it.

"Kuryakin," he said, taking off his headphones and barely dropping Mr. Tormé's American inflections.

_"Solo. Is this too soon?"_

Illya took half a second to realize (or at least hope) that Napoleon was talking about his call yesterday rather than their recently terminated exchange. "You may call at your leisure, Napoleon. What greater thrill could an invalid have to occupy his hours?"

A chuckle, then, _"In that case, you're welcome. Sorry if I woke you up... you already sound pretty awake, though."_

He should tell Napoleon. About Egret. Tell him. Egret. Tell. Tell. Tell.

Dammit, why wasn't he telling?

_"Well… I just wanted to hear your voice again. W__e don't have to talk long if you don't want to__"_

But he wanted to! He wanted very badly to talk at very much length at very loud volumes about very specific things but somehow that wasn't happening!

"_I can't tell you when I'll be back, but things are going well so I'm optimistic. I'll see you soon. Maybe call you again sooner. 'Kay?"_

"Yes—" no, it was not okay, he was not okay, this entire situation was most emphatically not okay, and he had to put an end to this-it before it-this put an end to something of importance "—of course. Goodbye, Napoleon."

* * *

Thanks for reading! :)


	4. Act IV: An engaging guacamole cow

**A/N**: Oh, look, an ending.

Chapter **warnings**: Self-injury

* * *

**Act IV**: An engaging guacamole cow

_Sixteen years ago_

_June 5__th_

_Acapulco_

"_'A new difficulty came into Alice's head. 'Supposing it couldn't find any?' she suggested.'_"

Napoleon snuggled closer to his sister. He didn't really need her to read Lewis Carroll to him—he'd been handling _Through the Looking-glass_ just fine without her—but she had offered and they hadn't spent much time together today, so here they were, sitting close together on one of the beds in the mercifully air-conditioned Acapulco hotel room.

"_'Then it would die, of course,'_" Lota continued in her nasally Gnat voice, then resumed her English voice. "_'But that must happen very often,' Alice remarked thoughtfully. 'It always happens,' said the Gnat.'_"

Lota went quiet, and Napoleon looked at the page to check that it didn't say anything that suggested the reader hold a moment of silence for the Bread-and-Butterflies. It didn't say that specifically, but it did say that Alice pondered silently for a minute or two. That, however, was a minute and a half too long for Napoleon, so he nudged at Carlota's elbow and she smiled quickly before carrying on.

"_'The Gnat amused itself meanwhile by humming round and round her head: at last it settled again and remarked, 'I suppose you don't want to lose your name?'_"

It had been a little weird that they'd spent most of the day apart, this being a family vacation and all, but Lota had said she was tired from the air travel and asked if she could just hang out in the hotel room. Mom and Dad had decided not to force her if she was tired (and she'd seemed tired a lot lately), so they had agreed to let her stay there while they explored the resort grounds with Napoleon.

"'_No, indeed,' Alice said, a little anxiously. 'And yet I don't know,' the Gnat went on in a careless tone: 'only think how convenient it would be if you could manage to go home without it!'_"

Well, it didn't matter. They were together now, and they'd be together for the rest of the vacation, and they were together a lot at home, too. There was plenty of time.

* * *

_Punto Viejo_

Marton answered the call. "Dr. Egret, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

_"Got a pen handy, Victor?"_

"Always, my dear."

Egret rattled off a series of numbers and letters. _"Call me when you're ready to fork it over, __**dear**__."_

She hung up and Marton sighed—not at having lost the bet (he hadn't confirmed the flight numbers as belonging to delayed flights, so it wasn't true yet), but at Egret's typical curtness. The good doctor could lock horns with the best of the worst, but she really had no class.

"Jefe," came the call from the door, accompanied by a rap at the doorframe. Marton put down the phone and raised his brows at the henchman. "Señor Delgado would like to see you, sir." The henchman looked back at a whispering sound, clenched his jaw, and turned again to look at Marton. "Señor Delgado would _most humbly_ like to see you, sir."

"Why, see him in, of course," Marton declared.

"Simple instructions, my good man," Delgado tutted at the henchman, the former having already swept through before Marton had gotten past his second syllable. "Simple courtesies of language. Excuse us, won't you?"

The henchman swung the door most of the way, stopping just in time to very quietly click it shut.

"What a pleasant surprise to see you again so soon, my friend," Marton beamed. "Please, sit. May I offer you something to drink?"

"Ah, not this time, sir," Delgado said, holding up a hand and taking one of the chairs across from Marton at his desk. "I am hear most urgently to ask a favor of you, I fear."

Marton tapped the tips of his fingers together. "Why, dear me, what troubles you?"

"I most regretfully was compelled to deceive you." Delgado stroked his chin for no particular reason other than, presumably, to look contrite or thoughtful or something he did not particularly feel at the moment. "A spot of 'good-doing', as it were, to accelerate my return to freedom."

"Oh, dear," Marton said again. "Most unfortunate."

Delgado shrugged. "It could have been more painful, I admit, but it is most regrettable that I was forced to bring you into this, my friend."

"It certainly is," Marton agreed, and listened as Delgado proceeded to outline the UNCLE assignment he'd (oh so regrettably, of course) assisted with. "I appreciate your telling me this after the fact, Mr. Delgado," Marton said afterward, less irked than he would have been if Egret hadn't already informed him that he had probably lost their bet. "How can I help you?"

Delgado smiled. "I think you mean to ask _why_ you should help me, sir, but I appreciate your courtesy. As you can understand, both UNCLE and Mexican authorities would like me not to leave the country. I, on the other hand, am most eager to pursue an opportunity that has arisen in Thailand."

Marton offered the services of his private jet, Delgado accepted with the promise of a generous cut in the Thai venture, and the gentlemen parted ways.

* * *

_Orlando_

Napoleon let out a puff of breath as he shut the hotel room door, was half tempted to just throw himself onto the bed and give up for the night, got a hold of himself and made the obligatory security check.

Clear.

He threw himself onto the bed and threw one of the pillows onto the floor because having two pillows on the queen mattress was too bitter a reminder that he was not at home, in bed with a companion, as he should have been at this point.

Well, everything else on assignment had gone as well as he could have hoped for, so he supposed he should be grateful rather than disgruntled at this state of affairs. He glanced at his wristwatch and, since no observers were present, set an alarm for three minutes, since he judged that enough time to be disgruntled.

As soon as the alarm went off, he went over to his suitcase to retrieve his pajamas and promptly realized that three minutes had not been enough time: There was something in his pajamas and it wasn't himself or his boyfriend or a setup for a corny old joke, so this was not an acceptable turn of events.

Making a mental note to set another alarm later to treat himself to a bit more disgruntlement, he carried the folded outfit at arms' length over to the window, in case he had to drop the thing and make a break for it. Setting the bundle gingerly on the small table by the window, he checked the top and found nothing in it.

"Not guilty," he informed the pajama shirt and tossed it over to the bed before determining that the intruder was folded in the trouser leg.

"Please don't be something venomous," he muttered at the pants before very deliberately slipping a small manila envelope from the folds of material.

"It'd be great if you didn't explode," he commented to the envelope as he hefted it in one hand. It had a bit of weight to it and made somewhat metallic noises.

"If you're shrapnel, I don't think I can forgive you," he declared before turning it over in his hands and noting the narrow handwriting on the flap side.

_My friend, treat your "roommate" to something delightful. RD_.

Rafael Delgado's friend squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again only to find that he had not misread the message, and cursed the King of Diamonds (who was very much not a friend) under his breath.

"You're killing me, RD," he claimed, even though he was reasonably confident now that nothing imminently life-threatening hid within. He accordingly lifted the flap and shook the contents into one palm and poked himself in the eye with the corner of the envelope as the other hand flew to his forehead in consternation.

"Life is good, everything's fine, it's all good, happy thoughts," he told himself, since he'd done enough cussing for one day. "Happy thoughts," he said again, chuckling at how funny he was sure he looked and also at the happy thought of slugging Delgado in the jaw.

"Ah, me," Napoleon sighed as the stinging in his eyeball subsided and he squinted for a closer look at the spectacular hunk of red stone hanging from intricately vine-like silver chains.

Did Delgado seriously think he was going to keep the thing? Another glance at the envelope reminded him that… no. No, Delgado did not think he was going to keep the thing. He thought Napoleon was going to hock it to get something delightful for Illya.

"Thankfully, Señor, I do not require your charity." He thought a moment. "And even if I did, I'd probably have enough morals to not accept." He decided he'd probably have to work on his morality muscles and delicately replaced the museum piece in the envelope before turning to glower at the digital clock on the nightstand.

After another three minutes of being disgruntled, Napoleon produced his communicator. "Open channel D."

_"Howdy-do, bop-a-doo?"_

Napoleon blinked at the raspy voice. "Gerry? What brings me the pleasure of your company?"

_"As fas-kin-ating as you find your BF, Liebchen, he's helping me to tears."_

Napoleon chuckled. "Not calling upon your services to your satisfaction?"

_"I'm reduced to thumb-twiddling. It's an ugly picture here, bubby, so I talked the third-shift secretary from Waverly's office into taking the night off. Bribery may have been involved, but that part's strictly on the DL, capisce?"_

"Secret's safe with me, Gerry-pie."

_"Your devotion warms my cold, bored-as-dead heart. What're you calling me for at this ungodly hour of the night, anyway?"_

"In wrapping up the Punto Viejo affair, I… seem to have trafficked stolen goods into the States."

_"Well. That's just unfortunate, ain't it?"_

"I'd call it downright inconvenient."

_"To each their own. Whaddya want me to do about it?"_

"Should I tell Waverly, call the museum, track down Delgado…?"

"_Rest easy in the knowledge that I'm not about to razz Mr. Professional Agent for not knowing what to do."_

Napoleon rubbed the back of his neck. "Done. What next?"

"_I tell you a funny thing."_

"A thing of the 'ha-ha' variety or of the 'existential regret' variety?"

"_Maybe something like 'face-palm' variety? Delgado made a break for it when our peeps were passing him along to Mexican authorities."_

Napoleon resisted the urge to subscribe to the secretary's description. He'd almost poked his eye out enough for one day. "And?"

"_For-it got broke. Anyway, I'll pass this along to Waverly and call the museum folks. A courier will pop over to your hotel room early in the A.M. to pick up the shiny stuff. You can continue going homeward bound once you've ditched it."_

"Thanks, Ger."

"_Eh, what are legendary demigods of the secretarial department for? Want me to put you through to your honeybunny?"_

"What?" Napoleon blurted before realizing that some of his disgruntlement must have outlasted three-plus-three minutes and ended up seeping through the radio waves. He chuckled. "No, he's probably sleeping. I'm fine, anyway."

Gerry snorted loudly. _"Well, I've got some shocked-and-appalled museum curators to verbally grovel at, but if you're still 'fine' in thirty minutes or so, feel free to give me a buzz, mmkay?"_

"'Preciate it, Ger."

"_Yepperoni."_

"Solo out."

Napoleon terminated the connection and let out a breath. He really had to get ahold of himself. It wouldn't do to get all prickly at this time every year for the rest of his life. Besides probably not being a great marker of his mental resilience, he wouldn't want this to get worse. Out of control. Disrupting his life, work, relationships.

"We have to learn to live together, Lota," he murmured, grabbing up his pajamas and making quick work of getting into them, now that it was free of unwelcome surprises. He slipped under the bedsheets and stared at the ceiling. Then he glanced at the hotel phone next to the digital clock.

Ceiling.

Phone.

Ceiling.

"Dammit, Gerry."

Phone. He examined it for bugs, mentally replayed his interactions with hotel staff, found nothing to suspect, and punched in Illya's number.

"_Yes?"_ came warily at the fourth ring.

"I'll be home soon."

Napoleon could almost see the blue eyes blinking at the abrupt declaration. _"Then why is it of such importance that we talk now?"_

"It's not soon enough," the American returned gently at the demand, having noted mild annoyance but no real bite to the tone.

"_Oh."_ A brief pause, and Napoleon could almost hear the abrupt cessation of breath as the plump lower lip was bitten in the Russian's scramble for something nice to say. _"What would you like to talk about?"_ was the result.

"I just want to hear your voice. Could you tell me about your day, chou? How are you feeling?"

Another pause, and Napoleon closed his eyes to listen as Illya haltingly obliged. Still had a fever. Voice a little rough. Didn't notice other symptoms. Got some work done. Weather was too hot. Bed was too cold—

"How's that?" Napoleon cut in, eyes snapping open, almost seeing the flush rising on the pale face.

"_I… I've grown accustomed to your warming me up. The temperature is all wrong now."_

Napoleon laughed aloud at how the embarrassed tone at the start turned to accusation. "I'll be there soon, but I'll get you a heating pad for the next time I go away."

A quiet harrumph, and Napoleon knew Illya was scowling at nothing in particular. _"I can pay for my own things. Thank you."_

"What other observations have you been making while I've been away?" Napoleon prompted, and Illya obligingly resumed his quiet, slightly husky briefing.

He wished Carlota could hear this. Meet Illya.

His eyes slid shut and the soft drone of words filled his head. Carlota would have listened so patiently to every syllable, just as she had always listened to Napoleon: nodding at appropriate moments to reassure him that she was paying attention. That this was worth her attention. That he was worth her attention.

"_He's terrific,"_ Carlota would whisper as soon as Illya was distracted by something else. _"But did you notice he barely looked at me once?"_

"_That's because you aren't here to be looked at,"_ Napoleon would remind himself.

"_No. But you know I love you. You know I love him,"_ Carlota would say calmly. And she'd smile.

He hadn't seen her smile for so long… but there it was. Her smile. Her face. Clear as day in his mind's eye.

"_You're a good man, Nappy. You're strong enough to live with me, without me."_

She smiled again. Held out her hand and he could almost feel it in his own, soft and warm and strong. He squeezed it, and it was gone.

"_You can't be finding this very interesting,"_ a much deeper voice broke in, and Napoleon's eyes felt moist as he managed with some effort to open them again.

"Everything you say means the world to me, horobchyk," Napoleon said. "You know that I love you, right?"

"_Yes, I—know. Were you… were you falling asleep?"_

Napoleon chuckled. "I suppose I was. I feel at peace with you."

"_But I am not with you."_

"You're always with me. Everyone I love is always with me."

"_Is this some bizarre metaphysical belief of yours that you've neglected to tell me about?"_ A pause. _"If it is a religious thing, you may omit the 'bizarre' so that I do not offend you."_

"No, just good old-fashioned romanticism. I, uh, guess I'll let you go now."

"_How can I go if I'm always with you?"_

"Good night, chou."

"_It's morning."_

"Good morning."

"_It's not good."_

"Morning."

"_Indeed."_

"Why's it not good?"

Sort of a choking sound, then, _"Good night, Napoleon,"_ and the line went dead.

"Not good until we're together." Napoleon smiled at the flatlining beep. "Right?"

* * *

_New York_

Illya stared at the screen displaying how long the call had lasted. Odd that Napoleon should have called just then. Right after he'd taken the orange pill—or right before? He checked his notebook, finding no mention of his having taken it, but maybe he'd been distracted by Napoleon.

He was frequently distracted by Napoleon. It could be during class, in the middle of working, crossing the street, and any manner of other inconvenient moments, but the American's bright smile or tender embrace would suddenly spring to mind, leaving Illya to miss a full minute of lecture or find a page full of _NNNNNNNNNNNNNN_ on his computer screen or get honked at or be subject to any number of other discomfiting results.

Illya looked back to his screen, dark now, so he tapped the Home button and it lit up, displaying the End Call screen again, with _Unknown Number_ blazoned above the length of the call. It was odd that Napoleon had called at this time of night—and speaking of time, it was about time to take the orange pill.

Illya took the orange pill and jotted down the event in his notebook. Glancing over that handiwork, he wondered why he'd jotted it down twice.

He looked back at the phone and tapped at it to have another stare at the End Call screen—Unknown Number—how long Napoleon had wanted to listen to him talk—but it disappeared, replaced by a text notification.

_E: You did a wonderful job, Illya_

It was ridiculous, how disappointed he was to have the End Call screen disappear, but this was important. Making Dr. Egret happy was important… (He tapped out a terse, insincere expression of gratitude and sent the message.)… but was it more important than making Napoleon happy?

_E: You like making things explode, don't you? Think of something we can blow up together—that will be your reward for a job well done!_

That sounded kind of fun… (He tapped out a terse, insincere expression of gratitude and sent the message and tossed the phone to the foot of the bed.)… but it wasn't important that he have fun. It was important to listen to Egret. To do what she wanted.

But it was also important to focus on Napoleon. To do things that he would like.

Obey his parents. Do as they said.

Pay attention to his professors. Do research in line with their interests.

Them. Someone else. Always, someone else.

It didn't matter what he wanted. They didn't know what he wanted.

To be fair, though, he wasn't sure if he knew what he wanted, either. Did he know what he wanted? What he liked? Or were the things he did or wanted or think he wanted only based on what others expected?

Illya lay back on his pillow to consider this. He was sure there were things he liked. There had to be. Things like… blowing stuff up. Taking something apart to see how it worked. Breaking it apart, destroying it, smashing it to bits—what terrible, destructive things to like! No wonder he needed someone else telling him what to do.

A muffled thump drew his attention to the side, to the fist (his own) pressed into the mattress. He'd scarcely realized that he'd made any violent motion, but now he deliberately struck another blow. And another. He knew this was essentially throwing a tantrum, but nobody else was here and he was angry—more than angry—irate, furious—no, those were still inadequate.

Illya turned over so he could strike at the pillow, not stopping until he noticed the seams of the pillowcase had ripped… that he'd broken it. Such a little broken thing, those few threads, but he instantly recalled earlier that year, to February, when he'd punched a lighting fixture.

His parents died.

His fault.

His fault, and Napoleon didn't even know it. Didn't even recognize it. Didn't recognize—

He hissed and cradled his head in his hands. Had something hit him? His head hurt, his knuckles hurt—had he hit himself in the head?

"Stop it," he scolded himself. "It must be you forget the orange," he concluded since he hadn't hit himself after he'd taken the orange pills earlier.

Did that make sense? That made sense.

Once the spot on his head stopped screaming so much, he reached over to retrieve the bottle of orange pills. Then he wondered if he'd hit himself since he'd taken too much. He'd never hit himself after taking the right amount, so maybe he'd done it because he'd taken too much.

Yes, that had to be it. Too much.

He put the bottle back on the nightstand, keeping his fingertips on the cap because what if he'd forgotten to take it and that was why he'd hit himself in the head? To remind himself?

"Ah!" he exclaimed, since the easy solution to this was to check his notebook, see what he'd recorded.

Notebook—it was gray. Why did he pick gray? It was such a depressing color.

"Focus."

Focus? How could he focus? He couldn't focus. Wasn't focused. Too blurry. He blinked emphatically, several times, not believing that he could possibly have hit himself hard enough to affect his vision.

Glasses! He needed his glasses. He'd not been sleeping, had been working too much… he was tired so his eyes were tired so that's what had happened.

"Yes, that is it," he said to himself—and what an odd thing that was. Had he always talked to himself? Yes, but not this much. Hardly ever in full sentences. Certainly not when other people were around—

"Glasses," he ground out. "Get your glasses. Think later." Then he realized he'd have to think now, as he realized he didn't remember where he'd put his glasses, and why had he needed his glasses in the first place? If he was tired, he should go to sleep.

_Bzzt!_

"Chert!" Illya cursed aloud at the abrupt vibration of his phone on the bedcover and, once he'd glared bloody murder at the device for a reasonable amount of time, took up the thing in one hand, realized he'd gotten a text, realized the words were a blur and that he really needed his glasses.

"Chert," he grumbled again, scratching his head with his free hand as he tried to recall where the damn glasses were. Scratching, scratching, scratching, dry skin, dry skin, dry skin, mud, clay, toothpaste, what was that?

He stopped. Scratched more slowly, inquisitively, at the changed texture. Took away his hand and wondered at the red on his fingertips and under his nails, the mix of skin and blood that had somehow become lodged there, red, red, red, red—under his nails, on his hands, over his hands, all over his hands—

He squeezed his eyes shut, and it was still red behind his eyelids, but the lids were too heavy to escape this sight, so he covered his shut eyes with his hands to block out as much red as possible, dim down the red as much as possible, and tried to sleep.

But the bed was too big. Too empty. Too cold. He opened his eyes and the room was too big—the world was too big—or he was too little. Just a little broken thing.

"No, no, no." He was being dramatic, ridiculous, hopeless. It was silly to be dramatic, ridiculous, hopeless unless—

"Fix it." He pulled the pillow from the torn pillowcase. "Fix it."

It was a small step, a little bit of a little thing, but he took the pillowcase and found the sewing kit in the nightstand drawer and mended it as best he could.

* * *

_En route to New York_

Victor Marton was a gambler. His experiences with (or, rather, against) Dr. Egret convinced him of that.

Victor Marton was not a very good gambler. His losses to Dr. Egret convinced him of that.

Victor Marton was a terrible loser. He didn't think he was, but he was wrong on that count, as often were people who thought they were always right, and Victor Marton always thought he was right.

He didn't throw a tantrum, of course, since that was childish. Worse than that, it was amateurish. What good would it do to have a fit? What benefit would that bring him, aside from a fleeting satisfaction and not much else?

Marton was anything but an amateur, so he did the reasonable thing and set out to ensure that he could never lose in the same way that he had just lost. And that, he decided, made him an excellent loser.

* * *

_Orlando_

Napoleon got up around five in the morning, catching about four hours of sleep. It really wasn't enough, but Gerry had said the courier would be by "early", and if all went well he'd be home by the end of the day and could sleep as much as he wanted then.

As it turned out, he could have slept for another hour, as a knock sounded on his door around six along with a call of, "_Delivery for NS._"

Napoleon went to the door and peered through the peephole, eyes widening. He remembered not to clap Mark Slate on the back, since the shirt and baseball cap bearing the name of a food delivery service were hint enough that he was here in an official capacity.

"You NS?" Mark said once the door was open, slightly arched brows betraying his recognition of the answerer, but he dutifully waited for the second half the code to be returned to him.

"Only if you brought breakfast."

Mark held up the delivery bag, and Napoleon tried not to get too excited over the prospect that he was actually getting food out of this. Mark—"Jimmy" according to the metal pin on the lapel of the fluorescent polo shirt—glanced at his phone and said, "Egg sandwich, no cheese, extra bacon, two hash browns," in some kind of an accent.

"That's me," Napoleon said, even though he would have preferred Normal bacon and Yes cheese. He slid the envelope with the necklace into the delivery bag as Mark handed over the food containers inside. "You, uh, aren't from around here," Napoleon commented. Unless, of course, Mark was under the mistaken impression that _this_ was how Floridians spoke.

"Came down from Bahston fuh work."

"Boston, eh?"

"Yeah. Use yah blinkah in the cah pahk, Masshole, am I wicked right?"

Napoleon clamped his jaw shut and pressed his lips together, but a snort escaped through his nose. He gathered himself before asking, "No good delivery gigs up in Baa-ston?"

"Cahst of living," Mark countered, corners of his mouth drawing down to counter the increasing amusement indicated by his eyebrows at the bleated question. "You makin' fun of Jimmy Mack?"

Napoleon snorted again. Well, sort of. He stopped mid-snort, which made his throat feel a little weird so he coughed. "Hate to instigate and run, Jimbo, but I just had a thought."

Mark shrugged. "Don't hoit yourself."

"Don't lose yourself."

Mark paused in his turning away, then he grinned and shook his finger, realizing that Napoleon thought his brilliant accent was slipping. "Ohh, yeah, that's toity-toid and toid."

Napoleon could only hope his concern for Mark Slate's mental health was made clear in the look he sent the Brit. "Maybe you shouldn't talk to anyone on the way out."

Mark silently cursed him with a back-handed V-sign and headed out, whistling _Danny Boy_ as Napoleon shut the door.

Bad accents and names associated with old songs. Napoleon sat at the hotel room desk and unwrapped the breakfast sandwich.

Air traffic controller Tormé from the Deep South. He confirmed with some disappointment that there was no cheese.

Deep voice. He had the poor judgement to take a large bite and narrowly avoided choking on it, because surely Illya hadn't been posing as an air traffic controller.

After several bites and a complete failure to convince himself that he had gone just very slightly mad, he went back to the phone and dialed the familiar number.

"_Napoleon,"_ was the greeting this time, since of course Illya remembered the phone number of the random hotel room in the airport hotel in Orlando.

"Did I call you yesterday, chou?"

"_You called today."_

"No, not the one-in-the-morning one. Before that. You had a funny accent."

Barely a pause, then: _"I beg your pardon?"_ in a tone that made it abundantly clear who Illya thought should actually be doing the pardon-begging.

"I didn't mean your normal accent," Napoleon put in quickly. "Your normal accent is adorable."

Another emphatically misattributed: _"I beg your pardon?"_ and Napoleon got an idea. If Illya had been the owner of the funny accent, he didn't seem about to own up to it… so perhaps he could allay his suspicions by simply getting the Russian to attempt the accent in question.

"I meant that I thought someone I talked to sounded like you trying to do an American accent."

"_Why should I want to put on an American accent?"_

Napoleon refused to be derailed by the just-about distasteful inflection given to _'American'_. "Well, you might have to someday," Napoleon pointed out. He chuckled. "C'mon, chou, give me your best 'Southern gentleman'."

"_Is that the one with the drawl and the 'y'all' and the insincere bestowals of heart-blessing?"_

"Yep."

"_Ah."_ A moment of hesitation. _"What would a Southern gentleman say?"_

"I wouldn't presume to know."

"_How do you expect me to talk like a Southern gentleman when I do not know what words I should use?"_ came the irritable response.

"Humor me."

A longsuffering sigh later, Illya made the effort:_"Y'all."_

Napoleon laughed, ostensibly at the pathetic attempt but really to hide his startlement at just how deliberately pathetic the attempt was.

"_Ah,"_ Illya said at the apparent amusement. _"You have been adequately humored?"_

"Yeah, that about does it for me. I'll see you real soon, okay?"

"_Yes, I'll see you real soon, okay."_

"Illya—"

"_I can't tell you now,"_ came the half-anticipated semi-confession. _"I can't—I should but I can't, because I shouldn't—"_

"I can send—"

"_No, no, no, I am fine—you are home soon. Soon?"_

"By three in the afternoon. You sure—"

"_Yes, right. That is alright. It is alright."_

Napoleon frowned but reluctantly trusted the other's judgement on this. It would be alright until the afternoon.

* * *

_New York_

"Mr. Thomson, I presume."

The doorman offered a dignified nod to the mustachioed gentleman with the European accent.

"Is Mr. Solo in, would you know?"

"No, sir, he isn't, to my knowledge."

"And you would know that very well, I trust," the gentleman smiled. "Is Dr. Egret in, would you know?"

"I'm afraid we don't have anyone of that name residing here, sir."

"Come, come, Mr. Thomson, it was I who facilitated the transfer of a certain property from Ms. Ravel to Dr. Egret."

Thomson hesitated a moment more before confessing that the doctor was in.

"Excellent. I shall go up to see her, and my man Halston here will help you remove your effects from the office."

Thomson looked from the European (French, he thought) to the burly Halston indicated by a tilt of the gentleman's chin.

"Your services are required elsewhere, Mr. Thomson. The Clarendon Arms."

Thomson didn't want to be disagreeable, but he also didn't want to irk his boss, so he folded his arms and said, "Dr. E is my employer, sir."

"Well, Monsieur Marton is going to very politely tell 'Dr. E' to shove off, and he has no compunction about compelling his man Halston to do the same to Mr. Thomson."

Thomson recognized the name of Marton (and, more importantly, recognized that Halston's means of communication might not involve much talking or much politeness), so he headed into the small doorman's office and cleared out.

Marton accordingly went up to the apartment formerly belonging to Gervaise Ravel and rapped at the door, which shortly cracked opened with the chain still latched.

"Good day, dear lady," he greeted, hat in hand as he bowed slightly to the henchwoman. "Victor Marton, at your service. Would you be so kind as to announce my presence?"

The door clicked shut again, about a minute passed, and finally Marton was granted entrance.

"Victor," Dr. Egret said, standing at a wall with several maps and papers adorning it. She went back to studying the adornments after sparing a gracious glance to her visitor. "I'm afraid I'm a bit busy to gloat, but you're more than welcome to wallow in your humiliating defeat."

"Always a lady," Marton said with a tone of complete and utter sincerity. "My dear, I have a proposition."

"How nice for you."

"I will give you money, the services of two renowned chemists, and the trust of a generalissimo who will shortly seize control of an oil-rich region."

Egret pushed a couple of pins into a map and turned around to spare something more than a glance to her guest. "For the bet?"

"The chemists are for the bet."

The doctor folded her arms and leaned back, realized she was leaning on a couple of pushpins, and shifted discreetly. "The money and the generalissimo?"

"Are for giving up this apartment and your enthusiasm for Russian orphans."

Egret's eyebrows arched.

Marton offered a placating smile. "UNCLE's claws are already in the boy, Doctor. It is easier to infiltrate than to convert. You can never truly trust a convert."

"You're not the only one with chemists, Victor." Egret gestured to a woman seated by a near window, tapping at a tablet. "I have Rochelle, and some very useful research from the late Dr. Park."

"Ah, yes, I know Dr. Maxwell very well." He nodded courteously to Rochelle, who did not look up or otherwise betray any sign of being acutely aware of the conversation in the room. "I had her convey some of Park's research to my chemists. They were rather shocked."

Dr. Egret stared at Rochelle's bowed head and asked Marton, "Oh?"

"There are one or two things of use, yes, and I defer their use to you. The rest—as Dr. Maxwell can attest to—are swill and poppycock." He chuckled. "To quote the professionals' assessment."

"I see," Egret said to Marton, her eyes boring deeply enough into Rochelle's skull that the chemist uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them the opposite way.

"Even the concoction you have been giving to your presumed convert, is quite suspect."

"I was told it would be effective if he survived the first dose."

"For a month or so. Then he will build up a tolerance and you will increase the dose. He will build a tolerance, and you will increase the dose. He will build a tolerance, you will increase the dose, and he will die. Or at least have a debilitating stroke." Marton stepped closer to put a hand on Egret's shoulder. "Would you prefer a few months of his services and a barely serviceable New York residence, or what I have offered you?"

Egret's eyes flashed in his direction, and Marton reaffirmed what an excellent loser he was.

* * *

_Another place and time but still in New York on the same day_

It was wrong. Something was wrong.

Had that wall always been so close? Of course it had.

Had the carpet always been so red? Yes, yes.

Had his fingers always been so long? Yes, or—yes, they had. Since they'd finished growing, of course.

And they had to take his medicine now. The orange one.

Had to.

Had to.

_Had to_.

Had to end this. Stop this. Before he did something unforgiveable. Before he couldn't escape.

But how? He could already feel his hand, with its not too-long fingers, reaching for the bottle. He had to take it. Had to—

_Stop_. It had to stop.

He swung at the bottle, flinging it across the room and hurrying himself out of it in the opposite direction before he could retrieve the medicine—the poison. He really should pick it up—had to get it—had to—

He grunted as he turned back to the bedroom, turned around again, back, again—had to—no, had to—

"No, not that," he growled at the bedroom, turning again to pace around the living room.

What to do? How to stop this? How—he had to leave. Leave the building.

He strode to the front door, but then realized he'd forgotten his medicine and had to—

"Not that, no," he stopped before he could get halfway back to the bedroom. Started pacing again.

So he couldn't just leave. He'd keep coming back. Had to be another way out. Another… way out…

Kitchen. He went to the kitchen. Flicked on the burners. If he could set off the fire alarms—

No. If he caused a panic in the building that ended up injuring someone, how would that be better than what he had now?

He flicked off the burners and paced around the kitchen. Something else. Had to be something else. A way out.

Stopped in front of the narrow knife drawer. A way out.

Opened the drawer. Knives. Of course, knives. It was the knife drawer. Or was it the drawer for other cutlery? No, it had sharp knives in it. It had to be the knife drawer, since that made more sense than assuming someone had wandered in and rearranged all their drawers and what was he doing again…?

Had to. Had to get out. Had to get the medicine—

He grabbed one of the knives. Not the largest, but not small. He turned the thing in one hand. Looked at his other hand. If he stabbed himself in the hand… he'd probably do permanent damage. So not the hand. Besides, he'd need both hands to get his medicine out of the bottle—

He glanced at his arm. Maybe… if he hurt his arm, he could call for help if it was bad enough, or maybe shock himself into forgetting about the orange medicine.

He pointed the tip of the knife at his arm, touched the metal to skin. Shook his head and withdrew the blade. No, a stabbing might sever an artery. Besides, then however would he—

_No_, not that. Not the pills. Not stabbing. He touched the blade lengthwise down his forearm.

One good stroke. If he cut deep enough—not too deep, but deep enough—it could be bad enough to be worth a call for help, but not enough to kill him. Or maim him. He hoped. But first he had to get the orange—

"No, no, no," he murmured, pressing the length of the blade ever so lightly into his skin to redirect his attention. There was a quiet hiss, which he belatedly realized was from his own mouth as he observed a thin line of red running down his forearm. It didn't hurt really. It was more a surprise that this soft pressure had caused this result. German steel was admirable, indeed.

He lifted the knife and harrumphed as he scanned the scarlet drops clinging to the metal. Then, above that closer sound, came something from the front door.

Unlocking. Not being forced or picked, the door was being unlocked, then opened, and then it whistled.

Whistled?

Doors didn't whistle, did they? Of course they didn't.

It was Napoleon, whistling something cheerful as he returned home.

Napoleon?

"Napoleon!" he called, startled by the urgency in his own voice. There was no need for it. All he had to do was get the orange and everything would be fine.

The whistling ceased. "Illya?"

Yes, it was Napoleon! His whistle, his voice, his hand locking the front door, his person appearing in the kitchen doorway, his eyes widening briefly before hiding their shock, his tone firm as he said, "Illya, put down the knife."

* * *

_He promised. _That was the first thought that struck him.

Not wondering how this happened, how bad it was, how to address it.

Not concern, confusion, fear.

Accusation.

Anger.

Betrayal.

Because he had promised. He'd promised he wouldn't kill himself, because Napoleon wouldn't be able to take it again. Wouldn't be able to survive losing someone else this way.

No, not losing. He hadn't _lost_ Lota. She'd been stolen from him. She was _his_ sister. She had to have known how important she was to him, how much he needed her. Had to. Because if she hadn't, that would mean Napoleon hadn't let her know clearly enough, often enough, sincerely enough how much he loved her and it would be his fault and how could he live with that? Live with what he'd done to him?

Him? No, her. He was thinking about Lota, not Illya.

Illya. Anger. Blood. Not very much in reality, but the thin red line of fact somehow, in his mind's eye, morphed into a gash. A gaping wound serving as the starting point for a stream of blood running down his forearm and getting caught at his wrist and palm, creating a waterfall of fast-flowing drip-drip-drips to the floor, puddling at his feet, pounding at his chest, hammering faster and louder until the beat of his heart shook his entire body—

"Illya, put down the knife."

It was his own voice, he knew, but it couldn't be. How could he be speaking so calmly when the entire room was vibrating with his emotions?

Illya looked at him, eyes wide, the blue of them practically glowing. "Napoleon, I—"

"Drop it right now, Illya."

Now those eyes flashed pain—not from the superficial work of the knife, but from the sharpness of Napoleon's voice. His anger instantly dispersed as he realized how quickly, how deeply his tone had struck the Russian.

"Drop it," he said again, anger gone but delivery still sharp, since no amount of contrition or sympathy could pry away the knife still being clenched in the white-knuckled hand. No amount of physical conditioning could ensure he'd make it across the room and disarm the younger man before he could inflict another, more severe injury.

The blade clattered onto the tiles, and Napoleon entered the kitchen with that sound. The harsh tone he'd shocked even himself with, suddenly became quiet, gentle, soothing, and how he managed that when his eyes were stinging from betrayal he'd never know, but he approached his injured housemate cautiously, murmuring that it was alright, that it was okay, that _he_ was okay.

"I know," Illya agreed, blinking as if it would be bizarre for him to be anything other than okay. Then, as Napoleon drew nearer, he feinted back. "What is that?" he demanded, eyes fixated on the American's upper lip.

Napoleon kicked the knife away, taking the moment to realize that Illya had just noticed the facial hair he'd let grow during his days away. "A moustache."

"Yes, but… perhaps I should instead ask: _why_ is that?"

Napoleon tore off a couple of paper towels to experimentally dab at the cut and found that it was actively bleeding, albeit not very quickly. "I thought it looked sort of distinguished."

Kuryakin pulled the corners of his lips downward. His eyes stayed on Solo's face even as the brunet started walking them both to the brunch table. "I do not like it."

He gently urged the younger man to sit down. "It'll grow on you."

Illya sat, gaze still flicking between the brown eyes and the brown beginnings of a moustache. "I do not want it to grow on me. Or even remotely near me."

"I'll just let it fill in a little, then keep it trimmed," Napoleon offered, retrieving the first aid kit they kept in the kitchen and dabbing again, this time with a sterile pad, and how were they having this absurd conversation when he'd just found Illya in the kitchen with a knife not being used for culinary purposes?

Illya was quiet as he watched Napoleon applied a thin layer of antibiotic to the red line, then he lifted his chin to glare down at the aspiring moustache. "If I do not like it when you kiss me, I will not kiss you again until you remove it."

Napoleon lined up a couple of nonstick pads along the cut, overlapping them at their shared ends. "Agreed." He started binding the pads to the arm with a roll of gauze.

The Russian nodded. "Carry on, then."

The American finished wrapping the injury and then carried on.

"I do not like candy floss."

"Beg pardon?"

"It feels like candy floss being smushed across my mouth and I do not like it."

"Well, if it fills in a little—"

"It will feel like a lot of candy floss being smushed across my mouth and I will like it even less."

Napoleon couldn't help but quirk a grin at how normal their exchange was. How wonderfully, beautifully, _normally_ coherent and snarky and himself Illya was being. "You realize that I'll be fully prepared to argue against your ever growing facial hair after this, don't you?"

"Good. If I've not the sense to rationalize with myself, at least I'll have someone else to do so for me." He frowned at Napoleon's upper lip again. "Don't try that again until you shave."

"Okay, okay, I'll shave, geez…."

Napoleon moved to put the first aid kit away and, as he did so, Illya blurted, "I need the orange."

Brown eyebrows twitched, hiding the American's surprise as he said, "You want me to bring you an orange?"

"No, no, I need the orange pills."

"Isn't your medication blue?"

"No, not that one."

"Then which one?"

"The new one. The orange."

"New one," Napoleon echoed. "You started a new medication while I was away?"

"Yes."

Napoleon furrowed his brow before guessing, "Oh, you mean the higher dose! It's a different color?"

"No, not the medicine from Boateng."

"It's not from Boateng?"

"No, it is from—from—from." Illya frowned. "I cannot tell you that."

"Illya…"

"I cannot tell you but I have to take—_no_." Illya shook his head, felt dizzy, and regretted it. "No, no, that is why we're here! Napoleon, I was not hurting myself because—I mean, I had to do it to get out, to get away, I—no!" he cut himself off as Napoleon's face dropped, abruptly reaching out a hand in the older man's direction. "Not to escape life—no, no, no, I was not—I had to escape the control—the orange, Napoleon!"

Napoleon quickly came over to sit opposite him at the table and the reaching hand between his own palms, making a shushing sound. "Calm down, chou. What do you mean, escaping the orange?"

"I have to take it but I should not but I have to so perhaps that means I should but I know it is bad but I have to and—"

More shushing, and Napoleon pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "It's okay—"

"Clearly not, Napoleon! It is controlling me, it—no!" he broke off again as Napoleon's mouth twitched briefly downward. "Not like addiction although perhaps that would happen or has happened—I mean, it is changing my brain so I feel that I have to do things, like—like—someone is using chemical modification instead of hypnosis—or is that addiction?"

"Remind me who gave it to you, again?"

"I did not tell you and I cannot tell you but you need to get rid of the orange—no, no, take it to the office. We should find what is in them. They are on the nightstand."

"Okay, let's both go into the office, huh?" He used the back of one hand to feel at Illya's cheek and forehead. "You still feel warm, and Med should check you over if you've been taking something you shouldn't. We might as well have them take a look at your arm, while we're at it."

"My arm is fine and my fever is down slightly."

"Well, then everything should go real smoothly." He kissed Illya's hand one more time before standing. "Where are the orange pills, chou?"

"Bedroom. On the floor. I should—no, no, not that." Illya frowned at the kitchen floor. "I… will wait here. While you get them. Do not let me see them." He looked up again to glare at the moustache. "Or that. Shave it before we go."

"Seriously?"

"Ye—no. No, I… suppose that can wait." He frowned at the facial hair, and Napoleon briefly sustained a hope that he was changing his mind, but Illya simply gave a curt shake of the head and declared, "No, I do not like it. Very much, I do not like it, Napoleon."

The utter sincerity of the statement made Napoleon want to smile despite himself, but he pasted a solemn expression to his face and vowed, "It will be gone before the day is out."

Illya nodded gravely and Napoleon went to retrieve the mysterious pills, wrapping one pill in a tissue before placing it in the bottle to keep it from rattling around and drawing the Russian's attention, then tucking the bottle into his sock. He lifted his leg and shook it a bit to check that the cargo was secure and silent, then went back out to shepherd the younger man out of the apartment.

At about the point in the hallway when they'd have to decide whether to take the stairs or the elevator, Illya asked, "Do we have to take the lift?"

Whenever they rattled around the building together, Napoleon had been keeping Illya well-practiced in riding the elevator despite himself. This time, even though it would have been faster (and Napoleon really wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible), he relented.

"No, chou, we don't have to." The soft outbreath of relief this prompted, convinced Napoleon this had been the right choice for this moment. Since there was still quite a trip to be made, he still asked, "Do you think you'll ever prefer the elevator?"

Illya shrugged one shoulder and slipped the opposite hand into Napoleon's. He ran his thumb up and down the back of the tanned hand. "I like this," the blonde declared, and left it to Napoleon to decide whether he was referring to stair-climbing or hand-holding.

As they continued descending and descending, Illya realized they were at the garage level and accordingly wondered, "You have a car?"

"Yep," Napoleon declared, putting the hand that had been joined with Illya's to the Russian's back, urging him out of the stairwell and toward the vehicle. "Mandated as part of my being a spoiled rich kid. Got one on my sixteenth birthday."

"Was this to be your 'dirty little secret'?" Illya wondered as Napoleon produced a key fob and unlocked the doors, the taillights of an old car blinking an invitation.

Napoleon chuckled as they climbed in, buckled up. "I was going to tell you when you got your license. Thought we could maybe take a couple days out of town."

"Oh. For what?"

"For what?" Napoleon echoed, starting the engine. "A vacation, that's what for."

"But we've had one of those. Is that not what we went on spring break for to England?"

"We're allowed more than one vacation in a lifetime." Once he'd backed the car out of the parking spot and was driving forward, he took Illya's hand. "So keep working on your license and think of someplace we can drive out to."

"Why?"

"So we can spend time together in a new place."

"What is wrong about spending time together in the old place?"

Napoleon shook his head, grinning. "Nothing's wrong with it, horobchyk. It's just fun to have a change in location once in a while."

"Oh." Illya thought a moment. "I don't care." At the partially suppressed eyebrow-raise this garnered, he added quickly, "I mean… I do not care about changing locations. You can pick where to have fun. I will be happy with anywhere you choose."

"You mean that?"

"No, I mean… I will be happy with _you_ anywhere you choose."

They stopped at a red light and Napoleon took the opportunity to look toward the passenger seat. "I know you don't like me saying so but, god, you are sweet, Illya."

"I do not like when you lie to me."

Napoleon looked forward again as green light entered his peripheral vision. "Is that why you don't like when I say that? You think I'm lying?"

Now his peripheral vision suggested Illya was shrugging. "You are lying, or you are wrong. Nobody else would use such language in reference to me."

"Nobody else has gotten to know you like I have," Napoleon pointed out.

Illya had to think about this one. He eventually admitted, "It was a silly argument for me to make."

"Meaning I'm not wrong, I'm just a liar?"

"I did not say you are a liar," Illya said in a rush.

"Only that I'm lying. Who's a person that lies, my dear?" He glanced to the side, catching a faint flush. "I won't call you sweet anymore if you don't want me to, but at least believe that I mean it when I say it."

"What of lying by omission?"

Napoleon couldn't suppress a sigh, although he hoped the mild exasperation behind it didn't seep through. "If I can't tell you you're sweet, and I can't not tell you you're sweet, what do you want me to do, chou?"

Illya shook his head rapidly. "No, no, I… meant myself. I-I mean—because I do not… say the—the _kind_ things you say."

"That doesn't apply to this case, chou," Napoleon (trying now to suppress mild guilt) assured. "You're doing your best, aren't you? I know I can be effusive, but that doesn't mean you have to be."

"I like." A harsh intake of breath. "Being with you."

Napoleon smiled. "I like being with you, too." The grin widened when Illya put a hand on his shoulder. "Have I told you I love you today?"

"Do you mean, that you… do that… today in particular, or whether you've informed me today?"

"My darling, I love you the same amount every day." At the fingers tapping on his shoulder, Napoleon glanced to the side to find Illya frowning slightly into the middle distance. The fingers stopped tapping after a few moments.

"How much is that?"

"With all my heart." Another series of taps, another glance to the side, and he could almost hear the Russian assessing this quantification. When the fingers didn't stop tapping in short order, he suggested, "To the moon and back." A split-second pause before the tapping resumed. "More than the foolish words I try to say?"

The tapping stopped. "Perhaps I should find out if anyone has developed a unit of measurement for emotion."

"Good idea. In the meantime, just think of how you feel about me," Napoleon said with a wink and, once he'd collected an adequately withering look, added the justification, "I'm sure I love you at least that much."

The longsuffering expression opened into one of shock. "But… that is very much."

"Well, good!"

"No—I mean, a lot." He frowned and removed his hand from Napoleon's shoulder to rub at his forehead.

"You can look up the unit of measure for The Feels later." At a flash of red entering his peripheral vision, Napoleon took a quicker peek at the patch of red revealed by Illya's hair-mussing and asked, "What happened to your head, horobchyk?"

"Hm?" Illya felt at his head, came across the scratch marks on his forehead and said, "Ah." He thought a moment before speaking slowly. "I think I took too much of the pills I'm supposed to take but shouldn't and I got confused—or I did not take enough and I got confused so I—you brought it, yes?"

"Yes, and you can't have it, chou."

"Mayn't." At the odd look this garnered, Illya went on, "You mean that I may not. I can—could—if I wanted. I mean, I want—no, I don't—I mean, I should—or I shouldn't—but I don't—"

"You are not going to have it," Napoleon said firmly to stop the rambling. "You don't know where it is, you are not going to _think_ of where it is, and you are not going to have it because I will not _let_ you have it."

Illya glared at the commanding tone, but only halfheartedly since he probably realized it was warranted.

"Have I told you I love you today?"

* * *

Napoleon walked into the room he'd been directed to in Medical, shutting the door behind him and simply observing Illya for several moments. He eventually determined that his boyfriend was not asleep despite having his eyes closed, so he mentally ran through his line a couple of times before greeting aloud, "Kak dela, horobchyk?"

A snort, but the eyes remained shut. "Molchi, lyubyy."

Napoleon hesitated before confessing, "I only got through thirty minutes' worth of Russian tutorials while Med was giving you the works."

"Truly a shame that rude things are left so late in language lessons."

The American smiled slowly, coming over to sit in the small armchair near the bed. "Really? Part of that sounded awfully similar to 'lyublyu', and I know that one."

"Did I not make clear that you needn't bother learning either Russian or Ukrainian?"

"I know I don't need to. I want to."

Illya finally looked at him. "When am I going home?"

"Nobody told you?"

"Oh." Illya appeared to think very hard about this before shrugging. "I'm not sure. Did somebody tell you?"

"You're staying for a few days, most likely. Have some scans done, have some folks help you transition back to your normal medication while that orange stuff is being analyzed…" he trailed off as the blonde sat up, muscles tensing.

"I have to stay? No, I—no."

Napoleon reached over to take the Russian's nearer hand, stroking the palm in circles with his thumb. "Illya, chou, it's alright. Nothing to get worked up over."

"But I do not—" Illya cut himself off with a sigh. "Perhaps I do need to—I… I will stay here a short while and it is fine."

"Of course it is. It's going to be just fine, chou. It'll just be a little adjusting period, like when you went off your medication for a few days and—"

"And had a psychotic break. Thank you, Napoleon, you always know just what to say to put one at ease."

"You're not going to—okay, I shouldn't promise something I don't know for sure," Napoleon admitted. "What I should say is, it's very unlikely that you'll have another… episode."

"Yes, but it's not impossible. Napoleon, I hurt people when that happened. I—I do not want to hurt you."

At the increasingly short breaths and increasingly distant look in the blue eyes, Napoleon rubbed his thumb a little harder into the palm. "You're going to be fine."

"That is not at issue," Illya countered. "I did not hurt myself."

"I have two nurses, a doctor, and a me who would contest that point."

"Very well. I did not kill myself."

"You're not going to hurt or kill either of us, Illya. Illya. Listen to me, please."

The Russian dragged his gaze back to the brown eyes as the American's grip tightened again.

"You were given some mysterious drug and taken off your duly prescribed medication. You're not going to be with the people who did that to you anymore. You'll be under Dr. Boateng's supervision. He'll make sure you safely transition back to your proper medicine. Okay?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Well, I'm glad we got that cleared up."

Illya nodded and lay back against the pillow, locking his gaze on Napoleon's and shifting his grip on the American's hand until their fingers were woven together. Nearly two minutes ticked by before he said very quietly, "I will."

Napoleon brought their joined hands up to press a kiss to the Russian's knuckles. "Thank you."

"I don't want to, but I will."

Another kiss to the back of the hand before he lowered it back to the mattress.

"How was Orlando?"

Napoleon's eyebrows went up.

"It was I who sent you there, you know."

The brunet processed this for a moment. "So I was right about the phony accent?"

"I told you that you knew." Illya frowned. "Or you told me that you knew and I avoided saying you were right but I implied that you were right." He nodded. That sounded correct… didn't it?

"Why did you do that? Not admit it, that is."

Illya used both hands to play with Napoleon's fingers, watching the movements intently. "Because I had to. I did not want to, really, but I was… compelled. Compelled within myself." He tilted his head to get a different angle on his activities. "That is the best way, yes?"

Napoleon looked at their joined hands. "Best way?"

"Not this," Illya corrected, wagging Napoleon's index finger for him. "The best way to get somebody to do what you want, is to make them feel they must want it as well, isn't it?"

"Could be," Napoleon mused. "Certainly effective, if not the best. Do you think that's what the orange pills are for?"

Illya shrugged. "Could be. When can I go home?"

Napoleon hesitated. "What I told you was my best guess, chou," he said carefully.

"Ah. I see."

"Do you remember what I told you?"

Illya glanced up from his busy-work to offer a grin that went as fast as it came. "You tell me many things, Napoleon. I cannot possibly remember everything."

"You can probably come home in a couple of days," Napoleon said. He halted Illya's fiddling by sandwiching both of the pale, blue-veined hands between his own. "I'm going to tell the staff you're having memory problems, okay, chou?"

Illya shook his head vigorously. "No, no, I remember, I—I—I love you. I-I remember that. I do remember, I do—"

"Shhh, I know, I know," Napoleon cut in gently, before the distressed ramble could go on. "I know, and that makes me so happy, chou, but that wasn't what I meant."

"Oh." Illya appeared to think very hard for nearly a minute, then his eyes lit up. "I remember—I mean, I remember that I didn't remember. Yes, I suppose the staff should know." He huffed out a breath and rested back. "I do hope people stop messing with my brain. For all its faults, I rather like it most of the time."

* * *

_That evening_

_Napoleon returning home from the New York office_

_A surprise as he gets off the elevator_

"Monsieur Marton," Napoleon said, since there was no use in beating around the bush. "What a pleasure to see you again so soon," he added and smiled, since there was some hope that his true role in life was still unknown to the villain.

The Frenchman returned the smile, pressing the fedora in his hand to his chest as he offered a miniscule bow. "A pleasure indeed, Mr. Solo. I do regret having to disturb you at home, but might we have a few words—in private?"

Napoleon took the hint and warmly offered him to come in for a moment, the back of his mind running over the locations of all the panic buttons hidden throughout the apartment and the front of his hand brushing across his side to reassure himself that his handgun was in place.

"Can I offer you some tea?" Napoleon said, shutting the door and setting his suitcase to the side of the entry hall.

"That would be lovely, thank you," Marton nodded, so Napoleon motioned for the villain to take a seat in the living room and went to the kitchen.

Once Solo had handed over the saucer and cup with steeping tea to his guest and they were both seated, Marton opened.

"You deceived me, Mr. Solo," Marton chastised lightly.

"Did I?" Napoleon returned, opening his eyes wide and knowing full well he wasn't fooling anybody. At least, not anymore.

"Perhaps you were not aware that Señor Delgado is a friend of mine," he said, and smiled at the flicker of surprise that Napoleon didn't manage to hide.

"Small world, isn't it? Milk, cream, sugar?"

"Real cream or one of those ridiculous creamers?"

Napoleon assured him of the realness of the cream on offer and Marton nodded, so Napoleon got up and returned shortly to pour cream into the teacup until Marton nodded again. Once the American had settled down again, Marton said, "You've met Dr. Egret, I understand… may I call you Napoleon?"

"You could call me worse things," Napoleon returned agreeably.

"I would never," Marton assured him. He removed the sachet from the cup, stirred the cream in and, to great personal distress, didn't complain about the American's poor tea-making routine. "Napoleon, I must say I do not appreciate being deceived, but in spite of that I have done something on your behalf. I must confess, though, that it was not entirely out of the kindness of my heart."

Napoleon crossed his legs, resting an ankle atop a knee, and wondered, "What did you do and what do you expect?"

"I have evicted one of your neighbors." He sipped at his tea and said again, "You've met Dr. Egret, I understand."

Napoleon cocked his head. "Not around the building, no," he said carefully.

"Nevertheless, she was here. I believe your dear Mr. Kuryakin _did_ meet her around the building."

"How remarkable," Napoleon commented, since now seemed like a good time to keep the other man talking.

"I have persuaded the good doctor to vacate the premises. Her apartment will be listed and, I assume, some very dull, very rich financier will snatch it right up." Marton enjoyed the tea as best he could for a minute or so before resuming. "It was considerably more difficult to persuade her to abandon her designs on our dear Mr. Kuryakin, but I managed it."

"Nevertheless, he persisted," Napoleon said dryly, since he wasn't sure how grateful he should be about this or (more importantly) how grateful he should seem about this.

Marton chuckled. "Come now, Napoleon, this is a wonderful thing! Not to, as you say, toot my own horn, of course…"

"Of course," Napoleon agreed, smiling warily.

"…but one should really be more enthusiastic upon learning their significant other has been freed from the clutches of evil."

"Ecstatic," Napoleon agreed again, smiling more widely and more warily. "What do you want, Mr. Marton?"

Sip. "I'll let you know when I decide." Sip. "I'm sure you will cooperate, whatever it is that I want, with the utmost discretion." Marton placed the saucer on the coffee table, placed the cup upside-down on the saucer, and laid the spoon across the overturned vessel. He leaned forward, hands on his knees. "I understand that you shall have to tell dear Alexander about all this but, when I call in this little favor, I expect your full cooperation. I can trust you on that, can't I, Napoleon?"

"If I can trust you've warded off Dr. Egret," Napoleon said slowly, and he really did not trust that, "then you can trust me, Mr. Marton."

"Excellent," Marton beamed, rising to a stand. "Thank you for the tea."

Napoleon walked him to the door and Marton positioned himself in front of the doorknob for some final words. "I don't think you'd want to risk my releasing Dr. Egret from our agreement, Napoleon. I might not catch on to your deceptions immediately, but you might not notice when I do catch on… until…." He made an expansive gesture with his hands.

"Until you're on my doorstep?" Napoleon finished.

Marton smiled broadly. "In a manner of speaking, yes. Until we meet again, Napoleon." He offered his hand and Napoleon shook it. "Give my regards to my dear Mr. Kuryakin, and to my friend Alexander when you brief him on our agreement."

"Bonne journée, Monsieur."

"À bientôt."

* * *

_June 5th_

He came to visit every day. Rain or shine, waking or sleeping, Illya knew the American came by, either because they had actively interacted or because Napoleon had left a flower or exchanged the book Illya had just finished with a new one.

This time, Illya was awake and almost in a good mood, since he'd been told that he could go home tomorrow. (He decided he'd be in a good mood when it was tomorrow.)

"I hear you're being sprung for good behavior," Napoleon greeted him, reclining on the bed since Illya was curled up in the small armchair with his reading material.

"Normal behavior," Illya corrected. He looked up from his book to remark with an arched eyebrow, "Impolite to put dirty shoes on someone else's bed."

Napoleon grinned and showed the soles of his footwear to the Russian.

"Did you learn to levitate whilst I was stuck here?"

"Some of us are known to do a good job of wiping our feet when we go inside."

Illya rolled his eyes and muttered, "Prynts ehomans'kyy."

"That's the second time you've called me that. What's the second part mean?"

Illya snorted and looked back to his book. "You told me you want to learn Russian or Ukrainian. Get to work." A quiet sigh met his ears and Illya looked up again in surprise. He wouldn't blame Napoleon for being impatient with him, but the brunet was almost always patient with him or at least able to hide his irritation. After a moment, he asked slowly, "Are you alright?"

Taking in the serious set of the Russian's features, Napoleon aborted his instinct to launch into platitudes. "I lost my sister around this time of year." At the encouraging but unenlightened nod this received, the American clarified, "Her death left some, uh, emotional scar tissue."

Another encouraging nod started, then stopped abruptly as realization dawned. "Oh! Yes, you have said that she meant a great deal to you." He frowned in consideration. "It… still causes you pain."

"Yes. I'm still learning to live with that, but it's helped to have other people still here who care about me."

"Your parents seem to care for you very much," Illya agreed.

"Well… yes," Napoleon said with a nod, smiling faintly.

Illya tilted his head at the taken-aback manner of the agreement. "Mark and April?"

"Uh… yes, them too."

Illya's lips pursed a bit. "Is there someone else?"

"Yes, I met someone in Mexico," Napoleon deadpanned, then couldn't help but laugh aloud at how wide the serious blue eyes went. "I meant you, you ninny!" he chuckled, sitting up cross-legged.

Illya blinked rapidly, ignored the funny word, and protested, "I don't see how you would find me helpful in the domain of emotional support."

"When was the last time you wished I'd stop talking about feelings?"

"Pardon?"

"I've never gotten the sense that you've ever really wished that. At least, not when I'm talking about my family or what I'm thinking about things."

"Oh." Illya shrugged and admitted, "I suppose I must have at some point."

"But you've never told me to shut up or just to get over something. You pay attention to everything—or if you're not actually listening, you do a hell of a job of faking."

"It is important to listen to people one… respects."

"Being a good listener is a very supportive action to take, chou."

"Ah," Illya said, nodding afterward since he thought Napoleon was a better listener and Napoleon always nodded or something to indicate that he was listening. "What is a you-ninny?"

"Ninny," Napoleon corrected. "I would have said 'silly goose', but I know you object to the silliness of geese."

Illya narrowed his eyes and stated, "Prynts ehomans'kyy: Prince Egomaniac."

"Good. Egomaniac and Ninny. A match made in heaven."

"Aren't you going to ask me?"

Napoleon considered the question, considered the question he was apparently supposed to ask, came up empty, and said, "Ask you what?"

"Whether I've considered what you asked me to consider while you were in Mexico."

"Oh." An uncharacteristic wave of self-consciousness struck him as Napoleon recalled his sort-of marriage proposal, and he turned his gaze downward. "I, uh, wasn't sure if you'd been able to—well. Have you?"

"Yes."

Napoleon looked to his companion again, found Illya staring downward, idly flipping pages in his book. "Pray tell."

"I need more time, Napasha."

"Of course…" Napoleon trailed off as he processed the response. "Napasha?"

Illya tilted his head just enough to be able to peer across the space between bed and chair, into the older man's face. "I would like to be certain I can say how I feel toward you… when it happens." A flush started to stain the pale cheeks and he looked down again. "If that is not too presumptuous."

Napoleon stayed quiet for a moment to analyze everything Illya had said to him so far.

A pet name.

Wanting to say 'I love you' at a specific time.

A smile slid across his face and, when an abnormal stretch of silence flowed on, Illya looked up again to gauge what was going on.

"You did not ask me," Illya reminded quietly, "so I did not say yes."

"But if I did…"

"Then I would." Illya went back to page-flipping. "I could ask too, you know."

"And if you did, then I would."

After nearly a minute of waiting for each other to say something else, Illya lost patience first and looked up to ask, "What does this mean?"

Napoleon thought another moment before suggesting, "I guess we're… pre-engaged."

Illya's head tilted to one side. He frowned. "Pre-engaged?"

"Well, we've established that if one of us wants to get hitched, the other's on board for it, but nobody's suggested that we actually follow through, so we can't be actually engaged."

"So we are pre-engaged," the Russian concluded.

The American nodded. "We're pre-engaged."

"Is that a real concept?"

"It is now."

Illya huffed out a sigh. "That means it is not a real concept. Fine, then. _Now_ we are engaged."

Napoleon blinked a couple of times. "Say what now?"

"Engagements can be as long or as short as required, yes?"

"Uh, yeah—"

"Then we can engage as long as necessary for me to become adequately confident in my ability to express feelings, or for as long as you find necessary. Would you like a ring?"

"I—what?"

"As part of the ritual for engaging, of course."

"Engagement," Napoleon corrected, a bit dizzily. He ran a hand through his hair. "I, uh… holy shit."

Illya's irritable expression went blank. "Did I act inappropriately?"

"No, no, not inappropriate, just—holy shit, we're engaged."

The blank turned vaguely anxious. "Is that… agreeable with you?"

"Yes, I—holy shit, yes!"

Anxious to confused. "Then why are you cursing at me?"

"I'm not—I just didn't expect—I mean, I was surprised, I—holy shit!"

Illya sighed.

"Sorry. I just didn't expect to get engaged today."

"You are sure you wanted to?"

Napoleon slipped off the bed and moved in for a quick kiss. "Only if it's with you, horobchyk. Holy—"

"I will cancel it if you curse at me again."

"I was going to say 'cow'."

"You call me a cow? Rude."

"Guacamole?"

"Worse."

"It's not like I'm calling you a guacamole cow."

"That is good. If you did, I'd have to call you a salsa donkey, which seems rather inappropriate for the occasion." He paused. "You've still not told me if you want a ring. I know it is usually for a lady, but there are no ladies in this situation so I am unfamiliar with the protocol. Does the person who gets asked, get the ring?"

"Well," Napoleon squinted and scratched his head and admitted, "I don't rightly know."

"How refreshing."

The American grinned. "Oh, that's fine coming from you, Mr. Smartypants."

Illya's eyelashes fluttered a bit before he guessed, "I'm… glad?"

Napoleon softened his smile and stroked a smooth cheek. "I just mean, you're so bright that I wouldn't expect you to be surprised at my not knowing something," he explained in an undertone, thumb extending to play at Illya's lower lip. "I'm flattered, horobchyk."

The Russian's mouth worked wordlessly before deciding on an unnecessarily loud, "Oh."

"I love you, Illya."

Another few moments of effort before a similarly over-loud, "Yes."

Napoleon laughed and leaned in for another kiss before releasing his fiancé's face. "You're sweet," he said, figuring a little irritation might unbreak Illya's volume control.

The plump lips pursed, the wide eyes narrowed, and then the tight expression fell with a subtle eyeroll and a grumbled, "If you say so."

"I do, honey. I do."

"Will you keep bestowing me with new nicknames?"

"You called me 'Napasha'. I'm maintaining the pet name differential."

The pale face flushed. "Do you mind?"

Assuming this was in reference to the diminutive Illya had used, he said, "I love it."

"And me."

"Even more."

"Enough to help me escape?"

Napoleon snorted in amusement, realized in short order that Illya was not kidding, and shrugged. "Alright, in lieu of a ring, you can consider this my engagement gift to you. Now let's talk about what you're giving me."

Illya blinked.

"Make a dental appointment." Before Illya could pledge his assent, Napoleon qualified: "For yourself, within a month, and follow through with it."

The Russian contemplated this hard bargain presented to him. "I imagine I could get out of here on my own," he mused.

"Not if I snitch on you."

Hard stare. _You wouldn't_.

Grin. _Oh, wouldn't I?_

A deep sigh. "Alright. I accept your barbaric condition."

"Hey, I shaved, didn't I?"

Illya took a moment to register the American's deliberate misinterpretation and smiled despite himself as they set to planning their new mission.

_The End_

**A/N**: Thanks for reading! Take care, :)


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